


Once More, with Vengeance

by Wuchel



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Action, Case Fic, Drama, Gen, Suspense, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-18
Updated: 2015-05-07
Packaged: 2018-03-23 14:32:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 20
Words: 32,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3771805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wuchel/pseuds/Wuchel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"When Harold Finch received the Number of an 82-year old he had actually entertained the idea, that with their track record, solving this case couldn't be all that difficult ... But even geniuses can be wrong." - Set in Season 2.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Teaser

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer:** The characters of _Person of Interest_ don't belong to me. I'm just borrowing them with no intention of gaining any profit.
> 
>  
> 
> **Acknowledgements:** _scully1138_ once again did an amazing beta-job. If there are any mistakes left than they are all my own.   
>  Also thanks to _BullDemon_ for encouraging me to keep working on this story.
> 
>  
> 
> **This story takes place in the second half of Season 2.**

“Mr. Reese?” Harold asked into the air around him. On the open com-link between himself and his employee, Finch was able to hear the unmistakable sounds of a speeding car, recklessly weaving its way through the traffic - a screaming engine, screeching tires, and a cacophony of blaring horns.

_“Yes, Harold?”_ John’s quiet voice didn’t hold a trace of tension. Considering the speed with which the red dot depicting John Reese’s GPS-signal was moving across the screen in front of him, Harold almost felt the urge to hold on tightly to his desk. 

“I just got word from Detective Fusco. He’s picked up Mr. Candrall and is now on his way to one of my safe houses,” Finch said as he listened to the car swerve. “It seems like they’ve taken the bait.”

_“Good,”_ replied John, expelling a breath. _“I guess it’s time to lose the company.”_

The dot sped up even more. While Finch had all the confidence in Mr. Reese’s driving abilities, he - for once - felt relieved that he was tucked away within the safety of the library instead of being in the middle of the action, riding shotgun. 

Harold followed John’s evasive maneuvers on the screen. He expected police sirens to join the noise over the loudspeakers any second now, but they seemed to be in luck for once. 

After approximately ten minutes he noted that the dot’s speed had decreased, and it slowly returned to within the legal speed limits. 

_“Okay, I think I’ve lost them.”_

“That’s good to hear.” Finch started to get up. “I’m on my way to the safe house. I assume I will meet you there?”

_“Yeah. I’m just gonna drive around the block a few more times to make sure -“_

John's voice was drowned out by the sudden sound of a high-revving engine, followed by a loud crash as metal grated on metal and glass shattered.

“Mr. Reese?” Harold asked. The red dot came to a sudden and complete stop. With growing alarm Finch bent over his desk and stared at his screen. “Can you hear me?

“Mr. Reese? Are you still there?

“John?”

Finch waited, holding his breath while he listened for an answer or any sign of life from his partner. But all he was able to hear was the ticking of a dying engine, then the line went deathly silent.

 

_To be continued..._


	2. Chapter 1

_\- earlier that day -_

As usual John Reese arrived at the library early, hoping to see Finch already busy collecting information on their latest Number. He had no such luck however. As the morning slowly - too slowly - progressed, Finch eventually grew more than annoyed at a bored and slightly antsy CIA-trained ex-assassin hovering over his shoulder. Faced with the ultimatum of either sitting down and occupying himself _quietly_ , or leaving the library all together, Reese shrugged off Harold’s irritation with an amused smirk, and - after giving the rows upon rows of dusty books a speculative glance - decided upon option ‘B’. 

Taking pity on Bear - who had been eying his two humans with a bored expression from his doggy bed - John decided to take the dog and himself on a long and much needed walk. He made sure not to stray too far in case a Number finally came up, but by the time John returned to the library shortly after noon there had still not been word from the Machine.

Finch was so engrossed in his coding he barely even noticed Reese dropping off Bear and placing a cup of freshly-brewed Sencha Green Tea and a sandwich from Ecklert's - Harold’s favorite deli, which John knew the other man would deny if asked - beside his keyboards.

Reese stood quietly behind Finch’s chair for a few seconds which the older man seemed either not to notice or to simply ignore. By the sounds of Bear’s soft snoring John realized that there was nothing left for him to do at the library but wait. Preferably quietly.

“I know where to reach you, Mr. Reese,” Finch said without turning around, and John knew a dismissal when he heard one. The last time Harold had more or less given him the day off he had tried to work a Number on his own, and just for a second suspicion bubbled up to the surface. They both had been different men back then and their acquaintance still young and mainly uncharted. Now John knew without a doubt that he trusted Harold Finch. Besides, the tracker he had secretly placed on his employer would inform him of any unusual movement anyway.

Pushing his suspicions out of his mind, Reese nodded minutely and added a soft “Okay” when he realized that the man seated with his back towards him couldn’t see him.

He stepped outside the library and stopped. Unsure of what to do with his forced free time his first impulse was to check on his pet detective. Intimidating Lionel Fusco always seemed to improve his mood. However both Fusco and Carter were working graveyard this week, and he really did not have an urgent reason to rob either one of the detectives of their sleep. And Reese had to admit that Fusco had been doing good work lately - even without having to be reminded about a certain dead body.

Reese checked his watch. A quarter till one. If he got going now there was still plenty of time to let Han trounce him again at the public chessboard in the park across from his apartment.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

A couple of hours and two enjoyable chess games later John sat at the kitchen table of his silent apartment, enjoying the calming effect that cleaning weapons had on him. The scent of gun powder and oil was heavy in the air. He had never minded this task - viewed by many as tedious - as he had realized even early in his career that getting to clean your gun meant that you had made it through yet another day alive. 

Reese was slowly and meticulously working his way through his vast collection, taking every single gun apart and putting them back together again after making sure all parts were clean, oiled and in working order. The repetitive work almost felt like meditation.  
He was just in the middle of lubricating the bolt carrier of the roller-delayed blowback mechanism of his HK MP5 - one of his favorites - when his cell phone began to vibrate on the table top beside him, breaking the silence.

Returning the bolt carefully to the other parts of the MP5 on the cloth in front of him, he wiped off his hands and tapped his earwig. This call could only mean business. 

“Yes, Finch?”

 _“Mr. Reese, we have a new Number,”_ Finch said without preamble, confirming John’s suspicion. 

“I’ll be at the library in twenty minutes.” John got up to collect his Sig Sauer and his suit jacket. He’d finish the MP5 another time - he still had plenty of similar guns if the need arose.

_“Actually there’s no time for that. You’re starting your new temp job in less than thirty minutes.”_

Reese dropped the jacket he had just picked up. “I am?”

_“Yes. I sent you the address, and the appropriate choice of attire should be arriving at your apartment momentarily.”_

As if on cue there was a knock at the door, revealing a slightly bored looking young messenger in a blazer and a baseball cap standing in the hallway, and holding out a garment bag.

John accepted the bag and closed his apartment door, missing the bored expression on the man's face morph into one of delight at his generous tip. “Got the clothes,” he told Finch. Unzipping the bag he peered inside, and couldn’t stop his eyebrows from wandering up his forehead at the sight.

 _“Good. Right on time.”_ Finch sounded pleased. _“I suggest you’d better hurry, Mr. Reese. I will fill you in on what I’ve found out so far about our Number on your way.”_

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Twenty-five minutes later John had been filled in on the preliminary findings of Finch’s background check on their newest number.

Louis Candrall, 82. A former plumber - born and raised in Ohio - who had moved to New York after he returned from Vietnam in ‘63. Never married and no kids, which eliminated Reese’s first suspicion that they’d received Louis’s number because someone couldn’t wait for their inheritance any longer. Candrall’s finances didn’t show any abnormalities according to Finch, and while they waited for Detective Fusco to start his shift before running a more thorough check into Mr. Candrall, their best option for figuring out why the Machine had spat out his number was to keep a close eye on the man.

Reese stood outside the building that belonged to the address Finch had given him, looked at the sign that read _Harmony Health Center_ , and suppressed a sigh. The moment he had seen the blue and white scrubs in the garment bag he had known that he wasn’t going to particularly enjoy this new assignment. He wouldn’t admit as much to his employer, but John had spent enough time in and out of all sorts of medical institutions that he could easily sympathize with Finch’s dislike of hospitals. Add to that the fact that one of his earliest, yet incredibly vivid, childhood memories was visiting and being frightened by an incredibly pale and frail-looking living skeleton - who his mother had said was John's grandfather - wasting away in the local retirement home, and Reese almost felt relieved that in his chosen line of work chances were good he’d never reach an age where a senior care center would become a necessity. 

He truly respected the people who chose taking care of the elderly as a profession, but if he had a choice he’d rather be staking out the place from outside for the next couple of hours. But a normal 82 year old did not own a smartphone that could be paired or a laptop with a webcam constantly connected to the internet that could be hacked. A closer and more old-school approach indeed seemed to be the most logical strategy in this case. 

Checking his watch, John saw that he was right on time and tapped his ear piece. “Alright, Finch. I’m heading in,” he said, as he ascended the short flight of stairs and disappeared inside.

 

_To be continued ..._


	3. Chapter 2

“You have no idea how glad I am that you were available at such a short notice.” 

Actually John Reese had a fairly good idea, considering that he had heard that exact same sentiment four times already since he’d reported to the head nurse’s office not more than fifteen minutes prior. 

Dutifully following the middle-aged woman - who’d introduced herself as Mrs. Monica Greenburg - down the carpeted hallway past several doors leading into rooms on either side, Reese smiled politely as she half-turned to throw him a more-tired-than-grateful smile. 

“We usually manage to tide over personnel shortages with our own in-house staff,” she continued to explain, still walking ahead at full steam, “and while I’m usually not prone to paranoia, I swear tonight the universe has conspired against me.” Monica dryly chuckled at her own words. 

Knowing that the universe definitely had nothing to do with her staffing problems that night, John adopted an innocent look. “Unlucky coincidences seem to always occur at the most inconvenient times.”

“Isn’t that the truth,” muttered Mrs. Greenburg under her breath before they finally stopped in front of a double door at the end of the hallway. “Here we are.” She turned to face John, clutching the clipboard that she’d been carrying tightly against her chest. “I thought I’d introduce you to the residents on your floor first while they are all still in the dining room. Makes them easier to hunt down.”

John nodded and made use of his polite smile again. He was beginning to like the petite woman and her deadpan way. She flashed her tired smile again and pushed open one side of the double door. 

Beyond the door lay a moderately-sized room that had been divided into two sides - a dining area with two tables each with a capacity for six persons on one side, and a recreation area with a big television, sofas and a few more tables on the other. All the chairs around the two larger tables were currently occupied by a group of - mostly - happily chatting gray-haired or bald-headed seniors, who were in the process of enjoying what looked and smelled like tomato soup. 

Reese’s and Mrs. Greenburg’s entrance was pretty much ignored by the group. Only the two nurses catering to the seniors spared a second to send a nod of greeting their way. Immediately John began scanning the room in search of the face of their Number, and found Louis at the second table apparently intently focusing on his spoonful of soup.

Monica cleared her throat as they stopped at the first table, however she didn't really achieve a notable reduction in the chatting and cluttering of cutlery. At the head of the first table sat a group of ladies, and at least one of them had taken notice of their arrival as she was unabashedly giving Reese a once-over through the thick lenses of her spectacles. John’s discomfort-level immediately skyrocketed as the wrinkly smile of approval the woman was sending his way turned unmistakably lewd. 

“Ladies! Gentlemen! May I have your attention, please?” Mrs. Greenburg spoke loudly and clearly, and finally achieved the feat of almost all twelve faces turning nearly simultaneously to look at both her and John. The expressions varied from annoyed to curious and the few heads that hadn't at first reacted followed suit after being nudged by the person with better hearing sitting next to them.

Finally having the residents’ undivided attention the head nurse propped her clipboard on the table in front of her and regarded her patients with a smile. “I’m sorry to disturb you during your dinner, and I promise I will be quick. This is John,” she said, turning slightly to indicate the man beside her, “our temporary staff member for tonight.”

Reese found himself under the scrutiny of twelve pairs of eyes, but judging by the heavy squints on some of the faces he figured that to most of them he probably was nothing more than a white-blueish blur. “Good evening," he rasped. 

The woman who had been eyeballing John before chuckled and clasped a cold and arthritic hand around his wrist. “Oh dear boy, you have to speak up if you want old Meyer over there to hear you.”

The women around the head of the table burst into giggles and Reese had to force his polite smile to stay in place. He heaved a mental sigh of relief when she let go of his wrist again and joined her friends’ giggling. 

“Anyway,” Monica continued, “John’s going to be helping Max get you all ready this evening, and he’ll also be on call during the night. So don’t be alarmed if a strange face should be looming over you tonight. He’s not here to kill you.”

There were a few chuckles and snorts around the tables. Reese had his eyes on their Number, who seemed to be the only one not appreciating Mrs. Greenburg's levity. He missed the suspicious glare that Louis sent his way as he looked down at his wrist. It was once again caught in the vise-like grasp of the lady with the thick glasses.

“You know, young man,” she drawled with a suggestive smile and a wink, clearly enjoying making their temp-nurse uncomfortable. “You, my boy, can give me my sponge bath _anytime_.”

“Ehm,” Reese croaked, as his shocked brain halted all thought process for a moment. The table erupted into schoolgirl-like giggles again, while John fought to keep his mind blank. _I might just have to kill Finch after this._

Monica sighed like a person who had to put up with the antics far too often and hunkered down besides the woman’s wheelchair. Gently yet firmly, she dislodged the gnarled hand from around John’s wrist, and returned it to the chair’s armrest. 

“Gracie,” said Monica with friendly firmness in her voice, while softly patting the woman’s hand, “behave yourself.”

“Don’t I always?” Gracie replied with a long practiced _What?-Me?_ -look, and Mrs. Greenburg smiled at her with an expression that held more warning than amusement, before straightening herself and addressing the group in general again. “Ladies. Gents. Enjoy the rest of your evening. I’ll be seeing you all nice and bright in the morning.”

Monica indicated with a shake of her head for Reese to follow her, which he gladly did. After a few steps - far enough away to be out of earshot - she leaned to her left and conspiratorially whispered, “They are worse than my teenage daughter and her friends.”

John followed her out into the hallway, silently wondering what exactly getting the residents ready for the night would entail. Actually he wasn't entirely sure if he even wanted to know. Was it too late to plan an exit strategy in case his duties did indeed involve sponges?

Within the few minutes it had taken Monica to introduce John to the residents the previously empty hallway had acquired two laundry trolleys standing right smack in the middle. The doors on each side of the corridor were open, and Greenburg headed straight for a door on the right. “Max!”

Max, who was busy pulling the sheets from a single bed, was young - not more than 25 - muscular, and he sported a huge, friendly smile directed at Mrs. Greenburg that made the skin around his cheeks dimple. “Good evening, Mrs. G. You still here?”

“Yes, unfortunately. We had a bit of a staff crisis.” 

Max’s eyes immediately fell on Reese, and he paused in his endeavor of removing the old bed sheet from the mattress. “Hugo and Stephen are both unavailable tonight. But we were lucky, and the temp agency sent John here to help us out,” Mrs. Greenburg explained. 

John’s first impression of the young orderly was that - despite having the outward appearance of an anabolic-steroid-addicted bodybuilder - the light in the kid’s head was far from dim. He might have to be careful around him. Sticking out his hand across the mattress to shake the other man’s hand he rasped, “Hello. Nice to meet you.”

“Likewise,” said Max with a genial smile.

Monica checked her wrist watch. “I’m sorry, but I really have to get going now. I hope you don’t mind me dumping John on you like this, Max?”

“No, not at all.”

“Thank you!” She then turned to Reese and shook his hand once more. “Thank you again for helping us out.”

“Just doing my job,” replied John with his best friendly and sincere face - even throwing in a small, lopsided grin for maximum effect, which earned him a truly bright smile this time. 

“Have a quiet night, you two.”

_Let’s hope not_ , John thought, watching her go and feeling more out of place than ever. He had absolutely no idea what he was supposed to be doing now.

“You can go ahead and take care of the beds across the hall,” said Max. He had taken up his battle with the sheets again, and was now clearly on the winning side. “Old sheets go in the right cart, and the new ones are on the left.”

That sounded easy enough. It also gave Reese a very good excuse for snooping around and bugging their Number’s room, which - if he remembered correctly - was on his side of the hallway. Picking up a set of fresh sheets from the cart John slipped into Louis Candrall’s room and tapped his ear. “Finch, you there?”

_“Always, Mr. Reese,”_ replied Finch immediately. 

“Any new insights as to why we received Candrall’s number?”

_“I’m afraid not. But I hacked the center’s computer system and I think you’ll be pleased to know that sponge bathing is not part of you shift.”_

Reese could hear the amused smile in Finch’s voice, and his own lips twitched into a smirk. “You know, Finch,” John said, adopting a lighter tone, “I would do practically anything you ask me to do, but if it had come to this ... I might have had to quit.”

_“Yes, thank God for small favors,”_ replied Finch dryly, before turning back to business. _“I gather nothing has come up on your end either?”_

John let his eyes wander over the room. It didn’t look like a hospital or your standard generic senior housing room. The windows were framed by tasteful drapes that matched the friendly yellow painted walls. The walls were adorned by various paintings Reese was sure even Finch would appreciate. There was a chessboard - the pieces in mid-game - on a small table with two comfortable looking chairs set underneath the window. The window itself offered a nice view of the quiet and well-kept green interior courtyard. The small bathroom attached to the room was handicapped-customized and clean - as was everything else Reese had seen so far. If it weren’t for the standard hospital bed and other subtle additions - like the oxygen connector on the wall at the head of the bed - the room could be easily mistaken for an upscale hotel room. Even the thread-count of the bed sheets seemed to be higher, speaking of greater quality. Add to this the top-notch private medical care advertised by various diplomas and certificates displayed around the reception area, and Reese estimated that the rent charged to live at a place like the _Harmony Health Center_ must be pretty steep.

“I haven’t encountered any obvious signs that would help point us to whatever has your Machine’s circuits all in knots,” John murmured while placing a small camera inside a bouquet of fake flowers, “but I am wondering how Louis can afford living in an establishment like this on a plumber’s salary.”

_“That is a good question, Mr. Reese.”_ John could hear Finch typing away on the other end of the connection - delving even deeper into their Number’s finances. Having finished bugging the room, Reese started to liberate the pillow from its case. The typing stopped. _“Huh. This is odd,”_ murmured Harold in his ear and then the typing continued.

Reese waited for Finch to elaborate while pulling the sheet over the mattress tight enough so a coin would bounce off its surface. Eventually he softly prompted, “What is it, Finch?”

_“It seems like Mr. Candrall planned ahead and set up a retirement fund from which he’s receiving a sizeable monthly payment - enough to cover all expenses.”_

John shrugged. “That doesn’t seem too odd.”

_“At first I’d agree with you, but it seems the retirement fund is actually a cleverly set up dummy-account, and by retracing the money movement I found out that it originates from a private and anonymous account on the Cayman Islands.”_

“So, there _is_ more to Mr. Candrall than meets the eye.”

_“It appears so,”_ agreed Finch. _“Let’s see what Detective Fusco can come up with. Until then ...”_

“I will keep an eye on him,” finished John, and gathered up the used linen. He took one last look around the room before going back out into the hallway only to find that Max was already working on his third room, and that he had better hurry it up. Dumping the old laundry in the designated trolley John picked up a new set of fresh sheets. Five more rooms to go. 

This could turn into a very long night. 

 

_To be continued..._


	4. Chapter 3

After two and a half hours of being ordered around by Max and the nurses, Reese managed to finally excuse himself for a few minutes, and slipped inside the staff restroom. Closing and locking the door behind him, he leaned on it and arched his back, trying to work out the kinks he acquired from hoisting frail-looking - yet surprisingly heavy - residents from their wheelchairs into their beds. He groaned when his spine cracked. 

Hopefully Harold was going to have some good news for him - like a group of shady looking men lurking around outside, just begging to be shot in the knees.

“Finch,” John said after opening the connection on his end. “Please tell me you’ve found something.”

Reese hadn’t intended on sounding so ... desperate, and he could easily envision Finch’s raised eyebrows. But at the moment he didn’t care if Harold thought his desire to get out of here in favor of beating the crap out of someone was unprofessional. After all, Finch hadn’t had to deal with the wandering and groping hands of a bunch of disturbingly juvenile-acting old ladies while struggling to keep up a straight face for the last two hours.

However Finch didn’t sound like he’d noticed anything about his employee’s disposition when he replied. _“I’m still in the process of vetting the staff and residents of the Care Center. Nothing unusual has stuck out so far, I’m afraid.”_

“Would have been too easy anyway,” murmured Reese under his breath.

_“Do I detect a hint of negativity towards your current assignment, Mr. Reese?”_

Softly chuckling at Finch’s dry remark John smirked at the understatement. “Let’s just say that ‘geriatric nurse’ won’t make it on my list of possible alternative professions in case I ever need to reorient myself career-wise.”

_“From what I’ve witnessed of your bedside manners I believe this to be a wise decision.”_

Someone who didn’t know Harold Finch would probably have believed him to be dead serious, but ever since Reese had started working for the mysterious geek their relationship had slowly progressed from handler and asset to something more familiar and trusting. Even though Finch indeed guarded his privacy like Bear did his favorite chew toy, John had been able to learn a great deal about the person who he knew as ‘Harold Finch’.   
It hadn't taken the ex-op long to realize and also to appreciate that with that brilliant mind came a very quick, and extremely dry sense of humor as well. By now John knew when Harold was teasing him and when not. “It’s settled then,” said Reese softly, and just as serious, “next time someone needs saving at a hospital it’s your turn.”

John’s only answer was a soft chuckle, which he translated into _‘only when hell freezes over_ ’. He pushed himself off of the door. It was time to get his head back into the mission, and he probably should get back to his duties soon before people started to get suspicious. 

Of all the staff members at the Care Center there was one that John was interested in the most at the moment - the one guy he was going to share the night shift with. “Tell me what you know about Max,” he said, as he walked towards the sink to wash his hands.

_“Maximilian Kovacs, 22. Son of Hungarian immigrants. Grew up in Crown Heights. Did well as a student, and it seems he’s managed to stay away from trouble as far as I can see. He’s currently putting himself through college, studying software engineering and working the night shift at the Center to supplement his income.”_

“So, basically he’s a saint.” John really was starting to get frustrated with this case. There was just not a single lead to follow. Unless ...

“College you said? Sounds expensive.” John dried off his hands with a paper towel and threw it in the trash. “Anything interesting in his finances?”

He heard Harold’s typing in the background, calling up the info. _“Well, nothing unexpected. Even with the student loans he’s taken on he seems to be struggling to make ends meet. His parents don’t seem to have the resources to support him as well.”_

Reese braced himself against the sink and stared at his reflection in the mirror without really seeing it. His mind was racing through various scenarios that Finch’s information had made probable. 

“Well, he’s certainly a smart kid. Maybe he’s asked himself the same question about Candrall’s mysterious wealth. He could have the skills to find out about the Cayman account, maybe he's planning on getting his hands on the money. Any idea how much there is?”

_“No, I don’t. And hacking into those bank accounts would take quite some time.”_ There was a brief increase in the ferocity of Finch’s typing. _“I’ll ask the detectives to check out Mr. Kovacs as well.”_

Tapping his earpiece into stand-by John stepped out into the quiet hallway. The residents were all hopefully peacefully asleep by now, and the two night nurses were upstairs in their offices - not expected to be seen again until their rounds in a couple of hours. 

When John returned to the nurse’s desk he found Max with his nose inside a text book, and his laptop and notes spread across the table in front of him. Looking up from his book Max flashed Reese his easy-going and infectious smile. “The ladies got you pretty good a couple of times, didn’t they?”

Reese grimaced. There went his hopes of nobody having noticed. “Don’t worry,” Max said, trying to stay serious but failing miserably at it, “you’ll get used to feeling dirty after a while.”

“Great,” John said with a fake smile. It was definitely time to change the subject. John had no desire for his boss to pick up enough information to deduce on his own what Max was talking about. Some things Finch just didn’t need to know. “So, what’s next?”

“Well, a quiet night - as long as the kids behave. I’ve got some studying to do,” he indicated the papers and books in front of him, in case John hadn’t gotten the drift yet. Shrugging he said, “There’s a TV in the backroom. Just keep the volume down.”

Reese nodded and sat down on one of the free swivel chairs around the nurse’s desk, pretending to play with his phone for a while. After he forced paired his cell with Max’s, he checked in on the surveillance feeds he had set up in Candrall’s room, and settled in for the next stage of the mission: waiting.

 

_To be continued..._


	5. Chapter 4

_\- two hours later -_

Everything had indeed been quiet so far. But it was just past 10:00 p.m. and the night could still be considered fairly young. There was still great potential for things to go sideways, which - as Reese had to admit - tended to happen a lot. That was the price you paid for going into these missions with precious little information and prep-time - just like with this case. 

All they had to go on was the social security number of an 82-year old with an apparently secret bank account. As leads went, this one - though peculiar - was far from a smoking gun. And as unlikely as it seemed, they just couldn’t rule out Louis Candrall as a perpetrator as well. After all, in John’s experience people with money rarely liked to part with it in a peaceful manner - if that indeed was what this case was about. This investigating-on-the-fly was part of the fun of the work he and Harold did, but it was sometimes also extremely frustrating.

Reese had spent the last two hours alternating between checking on the surveillance feed, staring holes at a studying Max Kovacs’s head, and stretching his legs, _aka_ 'snooping around'. He really hoped that something - _anything_ \- relating to the case was going to come up soon. Preferably before a patient requested their assistance for a trip to the restroom.

_“Mr. Reese?”_ The tone of Harold’s voice promised that something was up. Finally. John excused himself under the pretence of needing to use the bathroom, quickly walked down the dark hallway and stopped around the corner - far enough away to be out of earshot but still with the entire hallway in sight. 

“Yeah, Harold. What’s up?”

_“Detective Fusco just got back to me about his background check into Mr. Candrall.”_

“Did he find anything interesting?” John asked. 

_“You could say that,”_ said Harold slowly, piquing Reese’s curiosity. _“He found a death certificate for a Louis Candrall.”_

With slightly raised eyebrows John leaned back against the wall. “That’s certainly interesting.” He paused, letting the information sink in. “So, we actually don’t have any idea who we’re keeping an eye on.”

_“No, we don’t. Maybe the detectives will be able to match a fingerprint. Until then all I can tell you is that Louis Candrall died five years ago.”_

Reese could hear in Harold’s voice that the man felt as much frustration as he did. It seemed like the more info they got, the more they were stabbing in the dark. 

“Well, maybe someone should tell Louis about his death,” John said, his voice dropping even more in volume. He had heard something that sounded suspiciously like the creaking of a door and carefully peered around the corner. Even though the hallway was dark, the little light that spilled out from the nurse’s desk area was enough to illuminate the silhouette of a man - slightly bent over by age - slipping out of one of the rooms. Out of Louis’s room. “He’s on the move.”

John flattened himself back against the wall as Candrall turned in his direction and started to shuffle down the hallway. Looking around for a place to hide, Reese silently slipped into the staff restroom, keeping the door slightly ajar. 

_“Mr. Reese, what’s happening?”_ Harold’s voice sounded unnaturally loud in his ear, but John knew that there was no way anyone could actually hear Finch besides him. _“John?”_

Reese waited until the shadowy figure crept past his hiding place, counted to five and took a look outside in time to see Candrall disappearing through the door that lead to the basement. John had been down there hours earlier, depositing the dirty linens until their pick up the next morning. 

“Candrall is heading down to the basement, but I have a feeling that he isn’t planning on getting a head-start on the laundry,” whispered John. He carefully slipped back out into the hallway, and silently followed their Number’s steps. “Let’s see what the old man is up to.”

_“Be careful, Mr. Reese.”_

“I think I can handle an 82-year old, Finch,” said John in a low and raspy voice, all teasing forgotten. He took one last look around before slowly opening the basement door and peering through the crack to make sure the coast was clear. 

Finch sighed in his ear, sounding a little exasperated. _“I’m sure you can. And when you do handle Mr. Candrall, or whoever he is, try not to give him a heart attack, please.”_

John’s eyebrows wrinkled in slight annoyance, but he chose to ignore Harold for the time being as he made his way down the stairs. He stopped at the landing and listened for sounds that would clue him in on the proximity of his target, but didn’t hear anything. The hallway was empty. The elevator doors to the left were closed and the lights that would indicate movement of its car were off. A propped open fire door at the end of the short corridor was the only other exit, which didn't leave that many options as to where Louis might have gone.

From earlier that day he remembered that the fire door led to another corridor with two medium-sized storage rooms on each side, and a fairly large room at the opposite end. The large room housed the heating, power and water system, and Max and he had pushed the trolleys with the dirty laundry in there as well. 

Approaching the threshold of the fire door he kept on listening for sounds of activity, but the basement remained quiet. Louis had to be in one of the five rooms. Why and what he was doing there Reese did not know, but he was sure that he’d find that out soon enough. 

Trying each door handle of the four storage rooms lining the corridor John found them all locked. He crept forward towards the door to the utility room, and noticed that it was ajar. With his back against the door John carefully pushed it inward. His eyes first fell on the water tanks and boilers to the left of the room’s entrance, then followed the piping along the wall towards the electronic control units of the heating system opposite the door, and finally fell onto the trolleys of laundry he himself had parked at the right-hand wall. 

There was no sign of the man pretending to be Louis Candrall. Frowning John stared into the empty room for a brief moment. _Where the hell ..._

Suddenly he felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise. He spun around just in time to see that a metal bedpan was in mid-air and fast approaching on a collision course with the side of his head. Although the ex-soldier’s reflexes were still very fast, they were not fast enough. The improvised weapon connected with his temple, delivering a surprisingly stunning blow.

On the other side of the open com connection Finch had been intently listening in, and recoiled slightly as he heard a metal clonk, followed by a thud that he had stored in his mind’s memory as the sound a body made when hitting the floor. 

“Mr. Reese?” he asked and waited for the younger man to reply. As the seconds ticked on without a response worry started to creep into Finch’s voice. “Mr. Reese, can you hear me?”

_“Now, who the hell are you, you son of a bitch?”_

Harold’s heart skipped a beat, and his breath caught in his throat. That was definitely _not_ John Reese's voice.

"Oh no."

 

_To be continued..._


	6. Chapter 5

Reese came to with a start. He subconsciously knew that something was wrong even before he was completely aware of his surroundings again, and before remembering what had happened the moment the lights had gone out. His head was pounding painfully, and something sticky was aggravating his left eye. He blinked a few times, trying to clear his sight. 

He'd been dragged inside the utility room, and was now sitting on the floor with his back against the left wall. His arms were raised above his head and a quick look confirmed that his hands had been tied to one of the pipes with what looked like ripped off strips from one of the bed sheets. Crude, but it certainly was doing the trick. Rubbing the left side of his face against his upper arm, he left red smears on the sleeve of his scrubs, but also managed to clear the blood that had trickled down into his eye from a smarting cut on his forehead. 

He was about to try loosening his bonds when he caught some movement at the other side of the room. The all too familiar sound of a gun being cocked grabbed his full attention, pushing the thought of trying to free himself to the background. 

"Tell me why I shouldn't put a bullet through your brain right away." Candrall was approaching Reese, pointing a silenced gun at him. Louis's grip on the weapon was firm and steady, betraying the fact that he knew his way around guns. Also gone was the stoop in his posture, revealing the apparently wiry body of a man who had kept himself fit. His voice was low with the kind of throaty rasp that spoke of too many cigarettes during his lifetime. "He sent you, didn't he?"

_"Mr. Reese, can you hear me?"_

John was more than a little surprised to be hearing Finch's voice in his ear. Not that he wasn't appreciating it, but Louis had definitely searched his body and emptied his pockets - he was pointing John's own gun at him after all. Maybe the old man had just not kept up with the progress of modern communication devices. Whatever the reason Reese was not about to complain. Now all he needed to do was figure out a way to communicate with Harold without tipping off the other man. But Finch was already a step ahead. _"Clear your throat if you can't speak openly, John."_

Reese cleared his throat and swallowed a few times to look like he had trouble finding his voice. 

_"Thank God,"_ Harold breathed in relief. _"Detective Fusco is on his way. You need to stall for some time."_

That was easier said then done. John had no idea who he was dealing with, and who Louis was talking about when he'd said "he". All he was sure of was that Candrall didn't strike him as the sort of man who would have qualms about making good on his threat. He needed to tread lightly. Looking Louis straight in the eyes he calmly stated, "I wasn't sent by anyone."

"Right," the old man huffed. "Every orderly has a silencer taped to their calf and wears a gun in an ankle holster to work these days. I may be old, but I'm not stupid. I knew what you were the moment you stepped inside the dining room." He took a step closer and spat with contempt, his voice gaining in volume, "He sent you. That cowardly bastard sent you to kill me in my sleep, didn't he? Jesus Christ, it's been forty years! When will he ever give up?"

_Forty years? Good grief,_ John thought, _what sort of grudge feud has the Machine put me in the middle of?_

"Louis, I'm not here to kill you," Reese tried his best to sound sincere. He needed to make the angry man believe him - though it didn't seem like Candrall was going to be easy to sway.

"Yeah? Then why the hell are you stalking me?"

John kept on maintaining eye contact with the Number, knowing that what he was about to say wouldn't paint him in a particularly sane light. "I have sources. And they told me that you might be in some kind of danger."

Louis's eyes turned to slits, and he tilted his head to one side while keeping the weapon steadily trained on John's forehead. "What kind of sources?" he asked suspiciously. 

John mentally sighed. That backup would be extremely helpful right about now. "I can't tell you that." Louis snorted at that and Reese hastened to add, "I know it sounds ... well, crazy. But my sources are never wrong. I'm actually here to help you, Louis."

This time the gun started to bounce up and down as the man holding it erupted in disbelieving laughter. "Help me? Do you even know who I am? And can you tell me why I would be needing _your_ help?"

Reese broke eye contact. Besides knowing that the man's name was most definitely not Louis Candrall, and - as evidenced by his heavy New York brogue - that he had not been born and raised in Ohio, he had nothing more to go on. Hell, he didn't even know if 'Louis' even deserved to be helped. But raising that question now was most certainly not going to help improve this situation. Grimacing, Reese admitted, "My sources aren't that forthcoming with details."

"And your greatest goal in life is achieving world peace, isn't that right?" Yep, Candrall wasn't buying it at all. "As much as I enjoy listening to your stories," he said, slowly stepping forwards, "past experience has shown me that where there is one of you others are never far away." 

"Louis, you don't have to do this," John tried reasoning with the man, but he knew by the determined look on Candrall's face that he wasn't getting through.

_"John?"_

Reese closed his eyes. He'd nearly forgotten that Finch had been listening in. The worry and fear was more than evident in his friend's voice. The last thing Reese wanted was for Harold to have to hear him get killed. "That backup you were talking about would be highly appreciated right about now, Finch."

"What?" Candrall's forehead wrinkled in confusion. "What backup?"

_"I'm afraid the detective is still too far out."_ A pang of guilt swept over Reese at hearing Harold's frantic and apologetic tone. This wasn't his fault. So much for being able to handle an 82-year old. 

Never taking his eyes off the gunman, John relaxed his body and allowed warmth and affection to seep into his voice. "Then I suggest you better terminate the connection, Harold."

_"John -"_

"Hey!" Candrall yelled, interrupting whatever Harold had been about to say. "Who are you talking to?"

Reese regarded him, realizing that his talk with Harold had thrown Louis off. If he played it right he could at least buy some time. "I -," he began to say, but stopped when Harold's voice was back in his ear. And he sounded urgent.

_"Mr. Reese, it seems like you've got company. Two SUVs have just pulled up outside, and the men disembarking don't appear to be intent on a social call."_

"Send the feed to my phone," John instructed, then urgently addressed the man with the gun before Candrall decided to shoot him after all. "Louis, listen to me. I am not here to kill you, but those men who've just pulled up outside most likely are."

"What men? What?" 

John turned his head to the left so that his earpiece should be visible to the other man. "See this? I've been in contact with my partner this entire time." Confused, Louis stared at him, and with relief Reese noted that the gun was no longer pointing at his head. "You've got my phone, don't you? Take it out and look at it."

Candrall extracted the phone from his pant's back pocket. "How does this thing work?"

"Push the button on the side."

The display lit up, and John watched Louis's face closely as Finch relayed the images from various surveillance cameras and traffic cams in the Center's neighborhood. At some point an unreadable expression passed over Candrall's face at something he saw on the screen. 

"They are surrounding and entering the building right now," John said, repeating the information being fed to him by Finch. 

Looking up from the phone, Louis fixed John with a hostile glare. "You are one of them."

"Well," John sighed, "you can either kill me right now and most certainly get caught by these men, or you can take the risk of trusting me and let me help you." He paused, his confidence growing as the first signs of indecisiveness appeared on Louis's wrinkled face. "It's up to you, but you have to decide _now_."

Louis stared at John. The barrel of the gun was still discomfortingly pointed in the ex-operative's direction, but Reese's gaze was solely fixed on the other man's face. He knew he'd succeeded in his persuasion when Louis's lips twitched into a snarl, and he lowered the gun. "Okay. If you are so hellbent on helping me, then by all means ..."

John released the breath he'd been holding, and tried to ignore that his heart was hammering quite ferociously against his ribcage. But all thoughts on how ridiculously close to literally biting a bullet he'd just come would have had to wait until later. Now he needed to concentrate on getting them out and away safely. 

When the cloth binding his hands to the pipe came off John wasted no time getting to his feet - despite the needles of pain he felt in his limbs as circulation returned. "My gun and phone, Louis."

Still not entirely convinced that he was trusting the right person Candrall hesitated, but relinquished the objects at an expectant look from Reese.

"Finch?" John said, after he'd given his gun a quick once-over, making sure the safety was on.

_"Are you alright?"_

Reese allowed himself a small and very brief smile - a little touched by the concern evident in his boss's voice. "I am." John assured his friend. He took a look at the surveillance feeds on his phone, and - not liking what he saw - added, "For now. How many perps are we dealing with here?"

_"I counted six. Two guarding the entrance, one the back alley exit, and three inside. They seem like they know what they're doing. They've already got Mr. Kovacs subdued and tied up, and are about to ... they've just discovered Mr. Candrall missing."_

Reese watched the team of three hostiles methodically and silently make their way through the hallway upstairs, checking in on the other rooms without raising any of the sleeping patients. Their synchronized movements and stealth screamed of professional hitmen. Just what he needed.

If he and Louis were to get past the three men searching the rooms, the front door was definitely out as a viable exit - unless one fancied a hail of bullets as a greeting committee. Their chances with the back alley exit were a little better, but still risky. John was starting to get the feeling that his promise to Louis might have been a little rash. And time was running out.

Reese moved to the door and opened it a crack in order to keep an eye out on the hallway. "Ok, Finch. The front and back exits are not an option. Any alternatives?"

He could hear Finch's fingers fly over his keyboard, calling up blueprints and whatnot. He knew very well that from a strategic point of view the basement was the perfect trap. And the longer his partner remained silent, the more Reese felt like a sitting duck. 

"Finch?" asked John, drawing out Harold's name and intentionally not hiding the tension in his voice this time.

_"I'm looking,"_ came the harried reply, but before Reese could remark on the degree of speed of Harold's search Louis stepped up from behind, clearing his throat.

"I've been sneaking out of this place through a basement window in one of the storage rooms. It leads out into the alley at the far end. It's obstructed from view from the alley entrance by the Center's dumpsters."

John quickly went over the intel in his head. "I thought the windows were barred."

Louis shrugged. "This one isn't." 

If they exited the Center by the basement window they'd end up at the far end of a cul-de-sac. A dark cul-de-sac with no lights. With only one perp covering the back entrance they'd even the odds, if they managed to add the element of surprise. It was by far not an optimal exit strategy, but it looked like it was the best they had. 

Shelving the questions about Louis's need for sneaking out of the place undetected for a later time, John nodded, "Alright, show me."

With a quick look through the door crack to make sure the coast was still clear, Reese pushed it open all the way, then followed Louis into the first storage room on the right. He raised an eyebrow as the old man locked the door behind them with a key, which John doubted the nurses knew that he possessed. The locked door would certainly buy them some time, but he doubted that the people looking for Louis would be in the slightest deterred in their search by it. And by the haste evident in Louis's movements the old man knew it too. 

Lined on both sides with shelves, the room was longer than it was wide, and at the very end - up high underneath the ceiling - was their presumable means of escape. From what John could see in the dark, the glass of the window was covered in grime and it looked like it was going to be a tight fit. Stuffing his silenced gun into his waistband at his back, John used one of the shelves as a makeshift ladder and carefully pulled the dirty window open. He took a look outside, noting that indeed the window was hidden behind the dumpsters - just like Louis had said. It also meant that he couldn't see a thing.

Turning to Louis he whispered, "Wait here," then he pushed himself off the shelves and squeezed through the small opening, scraping his elbows in the process. Keeping close to the wall, Reese stayed in a low crouch as he pulled his weapon from his waistband. He carefully crept towards the edge of the dumpster, finally getting his first real look down the alley towards the street. Even though the alley was draped in nightly darkness, John was able to make out the form of a man clad in black from head to toe with his left shoulder pressed against the wall beside the back exit - ready to take out anyone who tried leaving the building through that door. He had his back towards Reese, offering up the sweet spot low on the back of his head like a target advertised by flashing neon lights. A carefully aimed bullet and he'd be instantly dead. 

There was a time when Reese would have taken the shot without a second thought. Granted it would make his life a lot easier if he did, but he knew that Finch would never approve - and shooting the guy's kneecaps would most definitely end up alarming the rest of the squad. 

Returning his gun to his waistband, John scanned the floor that lay between himself and his target for possible obstacles before slowly getting to his full height and reducing his breathing to a minimum. Skulking along the five meters of concrete that separated him from the figure felt like navigating miles of hazardous mine-fields as John slowly neared the hopefully-still-unsuspecting perp. When he got close enough he reached out with lightning speed and locked his right arm around the man's neck in an unyielding choke-hold, cutting off the circulation to his brain. Within seconds the man's struggles ceased, and his body went limp in Reese's arms. 

John slowly lowered the body to the ground, patted the man down and took his weapon and radio. Then he got to his feet and closed the remaining distance to where the alley opened onto the main road. With his back pressed against the building's wall he peered around the corner, noting the position of the two dark sedans down the road. But he couldn't see any sign of the perps watching the front door.

"Finch, I'm at the alley entrance. Do you still have eyes on the men outside?"

_"Yes, Mr. Reese. They seem to be concentrated on the front ... for the moment."_

Finch didn't sound too optimistic. Well, it couldn't be helped. Unless ... "What's the ETA for Fusco?" 

It took Harold a few seconds to check in on the detective's progress, _"Fifteen minutes."_

John grimaced. Fifteen minutes was plenty of time for the squad to notice that one man was missing. They really didn't have a choice - they had to try to make a run for it. 

Reese looked in the other direction. There were a couple of parked cars approximately 50 meters down the road from the alley opening. If they made it that far undetected, they could "borrow" one of the cars and get the hell out of Dodge.

Slinking back into the shadow that the alley provided, John stepped over the unconscious perp and briskly walked back to the window behind the dumpsters. Kneeling down he whispered into the even deeper darkness below, "Louis?"

"What the hell took you so long?" the darkness answered with a rough voice, before Candrall's face appeared in the window. Refraining from replying, Reese merely grabbed the man by his arms and pulled. He kept one hand on the older man's left biceps, and reached for his gun with his other. "Let's go."

When they reached the alley opening John took one last cautious look towards the front of the building, then more or less gently pushed Louis ahead of him. "Walk. Fast."

Reese kept checking over his shoulder as they made their way across the open ground, and almost allowed himself to feel relieved as they reached the tail end of the first parked car. 

_"Mr. Reese!"_

Finch's alarmed warning came just a split second before the first bullet tore a hole in the car's metal beside them, a second bullet shattering its rear window.

Pushing Louis ahead of him, John half-turned to squeeze off a couple of shots in the general direction the bullets had come from. Taking cover in the gap between the parked cars, Reese ordered Candrall to stay down and he peered around the hood, trying to get the shooter - or shooters - in sight. Another hail of bullets forced him back behind his cover. He'd caught a glimpse of the muzzle flash of one of the perps lying down cover fire as his partner sprinted across the street. They were obviously planning on attacking them from both sides. 

Pulling out the gun he'd taken from the man guarding the back door, Reese ducked down as another bullet shattered their cover's windshield. He called out to the man beside him, who looked at him surprisingly calmly. "You know your way around guns, right?" John asked, handing over the piece at Candrall's affirmative nod. "One hostile at your ten o'clock. Keep him busy."

While Louis was busy pinning down the man to the left, the second gunman peered from behind his cover - just as John had hoped. For the lack of a visible knee Reese aimed for the man's shoulder, dropping him with one well-placed bullet. Knowing that both Louis and he were bound to run out of ammunition soon, John wasted no time. He got to his feet - still keeping himself low - and moved to the driver's side rear window. He smashed it with the butt of his gun, and a cloud of glass shards rained onto the backseat. John reached through the opening towards the driver's door and pulled on the peg to unlock the car's doors. 

"Get in the car!" he yelled, taking his turn in lying down cover fire for Louis. He knew it could only be a matter of very little time before the three hostiles who had been tasked with searching inside the building would be joining in. And then they'd be beyond screwed. 

According to Reese's count he still had only two bullets left in his magazine when Candrall pulled the passenger door close behind him. John got in behind the wheel and they both cowered down as best as they could. Yanking the wires out from underneath the dash, John picked the ones he needed with practiced ease and had the car hot-wired within seconds. The rear window shattered - adding more sparkly shards to the backseat, as the engine purred to life - and with screeching tires Reese tore off the sidewalk.

Skidding around the corner of the next intersection, John pushed down all the way on the gas pedal. They needed to get as much distance between them and the hit squad as possible. Those SUV's had a lot more horsepower and John had a feeling that those men weren't going to give up that easily.

 

_To be continued..._


	7. Chapter 6

John took the next right turn at a neck-breaking speed, forcing his passenger to hold onto the door handle for dear life. "Care to explain why there's an entire squad of hitmen out to kill you, Louis?"

Candrall looked incredulously at John. "You wanna have that conversation now?"

"I could always pull over and ask your friends," said Reese, easing up on the gas pedal as they neared a busy street. He threw Louis a look that made it clear that he meant it before cutting his eyes to the review mirror. A pair of high beams turned onto the road a good distance behind them. Although there was no way to discern what type of car they belonged to, John figured it was a fair guess that the vehicle was a dark SUV. "Which is it, Louis?"

"Alright, alright," Candrall replied. He looked anything but thrilled, but eventually sunk in on himself like he was literally giving up on pushing back. He let out a breath. "Where do I start?"

Never taking his eyes off the road and the car's mirrors John quietly said, "How about with your real name."

"Right. I haven't used my real name in so long." Candrall paused and tiredly wiped a hand over his eyes. "My name is Doug Mitchell. I used to work as a bookkeeper for a small building enterprise here in Brooklyn. What I didn't know was that the company was actually run by the Gambino family. I found that out when I accidentally walked in on one of their captains fitting some union guy for concrete shoes." Louis laughed, although it lacked humor. "I was so young and naive back then. Thought that I needed to do the right thing and go to the cops. Well, forty years and three new identities later and they are still after me. There you have it. Satisfied?"

Reese shot the man beside him a quick look before returning his eyes to the road. _If_ what Louis was saying was true then they were running the danger of pissing off yet another prominent crime organisation in New York. Like they hadn't made enough _friends_ already. 

"Finch, did you get that?" John asked and changed lanes, noting that the beams of the dark SUV that was five cars behind them did the same. 

_"Yes, Mr. Reese. I did."_

Changing lanes again - with the headlights behind them following suit - John stepped down on the accelerator just a little bit more. He knew Finch would let him know what his search yielded as soon as he'd found something. For Reese their tail was the far more pressing matter at the moment. And whoever was driving the SUV obviously had skills.

_"I found the records of a Douglas Mitchell, born October 3rd, 1939 on Staten Island."_ There was a pause as Finch skimmed through the information. John took a quick right turn, speeding up even more. As expected the headlights followed. _"It seems like his story is adding up,"_ Harold said. _"I've found several news articles detailing his disappearance on the day of the trial in which he was supposed to be the key-witness against one Silvio Taldore. It was suspected that Mr. Mitchell had met with an untimely end, but no body has ever been found."_

Still, his gut told John that something was off with their Number, and he had learned a long time ago to trust his instincts on these matters. But currently their pursuers were definitely giving him the greater headache. Apparently trying to hide in the traffic didn't work - their shot up rear end was most likely a dead give-away. And with the traffic he couldn't risk a high-speed car chase. It would certainly draw unwanted attention by the fellas in blue. And so far the SUV didn't seemed to be having any trouble catching up to them, no matter how far John pushed down on the gas pedal. Well, if he couldn't outrun them he'd have to get creative, and an idea was already starting to form in the ex-op's head. 

"Finch, is Fusco still heading in our direction?"

_"No. Why?"_ Finch asked, a little puzzled.

"Tell him to turn around." Without warning, John slammed on his brakes, eliciting a cacophony of blaring horns, squealing tires and screeching metal from behind them - along with rather explicit cursing from the man beside him. Yanking the steering wheel to the left, John floored the gas, skidding the car through a gap in the oncoming traffic and into a side street. 

John sped down the nearly deserted street and scanned ahead, looking for a suitable spot. He knew it was only a matter of time before the SUV would untangle itself from the small pile-up he'd caused and be hot on their trail again. Spying a cluster of dumpsters and trash cans ahead he turned to Louis. "Get ready to get out."

"What?" The man looked shocked, which only lasted for about a millisecond before his usual angry expression returned in full force. "You son of a bitch. You said you'd help me!"

_"Mr. Reese, what are you doing?"_

Ignoring both Candrall's outburst and Finch's question, John slammed on his brakes and pointed towards the dumpsters hidden in the shadow of the building behind them. "Go, hide. A man named Lionel Fusco will come and pick you up in ... Finch?"

_"15 minutes."_

"In 15 minutes, while I'll be leading your _friends_ away from here." Louis looked at him - distrust written all over his face. "Get. Out. Now." Reese used his most intimidating stare and voice - the one that promised certain bodily harm if not obeyed. It had the effect John was aiming for as Louis fumbled for the doorhandle and stumbled outside. Trusting that the man would have enough of a self-preservation instinct to hide and not move until his ride arrived, John peeled off the curb before the Number even had a chance to close the door.

And as it turned out almost not soon enough. The by now familiar headlights were back in the rear view mirror, closing the distance again, and speeding past where John had left Louis hiding. _So far, so good._

He pulled out his phone and hit speed-dial. 

_"What?"_ greeted the grumbly voice of the detective. _"I'm already driving as fast as I can. You know you guys have me going back and forth, right?"_

John ignored Fusco's griping. "Finch told you where to drop off Candrall?" he asked.

_"Yeah, why?"_

"I want you to stay with them. Don't leave Candrall out of your sight."

_"You do know I have a day job, right? I can't just be lounging around one of the Professor's bachelor pads all night."_

"Lionel," John breathed, turning the name into an undisguised threat. 

_"Alright, alright. Babysitting it is."_

John hung up and for the next ten minutes he had to actually struggle to keep the SUV far enough off his tail. Whoever was driving the vehicle knew damn well what he was doing, he had to give him that. 

_"Mr. Reese?"_ Harold's voice was almost drowned out by the screaming of the engine. It was a small miracle that they hadn't attracted a patrol car's attention yet. 

"Yes, Harold," replied John calmly.

_"I just got word from Detective Fusco,"_ Finch said and Reese swerved the car around a slower vehicle ahead. _"He's picked up Mr. Candrall and is on his way to one of my safe houses. It seems like they've bought the bait."_

"Good." Reese expelled a breath. _About time._ "I guess it's time to lose the company."

The driver of the SUV might have been good, but John still had a few tricks up his sleeve. Pushing down on the gas pedal he forced his car to its limits. He zick-zacked through the streets and noted with satisfaction that he'd managed to slightly increase his lead. He knew that there was a small alley coming up, branching off of the main street, and he took the turn at the very last second with screaming tires. 

Racing down the alley he saw what he was looking for. The dumpster behind the Italian restaurant was quickly and steadily drawing nearer. He clipped the edge of the dumpster with his right fender. John allowed himself a small smile when a quick look in the rear view mirror confirmed that the container had spun with the impact, and was now effectively blocking the road. Enough to slow his pursuers down.

Reese continued his evasive manoeuvres for a couple more minutes - never once glimpsing the familiar headlights in the mirrors. Slowing down he tapped his earpiece. "Okay, I think I've lost them."

_"That's good to hear. I'm on my way to the safe house. I assume I will meet you there?"_

John relaxed into the driver's seat. "Yeah. I'm just gonna drive around the block a few more times to make sure -"

He hadn't noticed the approach of the darkened second SUV until it switched on its high beams, blinding him. By then it was too late to react. The SUV burrowed into John's driver side door with brutal force, easily spinning the smaller car over 180° and forcefully pushing it 50 more feet down the intersection. Caught off guard by the impact Reese was tossed around like a ping pong ball. The side of his head collided with the driver's door window before his face impacted with the air bag. The restraining force of the seat belt thankfully held him in place while the car spun around its axis, but it also forced the air out of his lungs. As the vehicle came to an abrupt stop the ex-op was once more jostled against the seat belt - its restraints digging into his chest. Although the car was finally standing still, the interior continued to spin madly and darkness crept in on the edges of his vision. John blinked, knowing that he couldn't lose consciousness if he wanted to have even the slimmest chance of getting away. However the beating had just been too much for his battered body and he succumbed to the darkness before the hot engine uttered its last dying tick.

 

_To be continued..._


	8. Chapter 7

Reese didn't know how long he'd been out, but it couldn't have been more than a couple of minutes. The smell of burned rubber and gas was still heavy in the air. He could feel warm, sticky blood dripping down the side of his head even before the source of the blood began sending an entire army of pain signals to his brain. Groaning, he also noted that breathing aggravated his battered ribs and that he must have hit is left knee against the dashboard during the crash as it began to burn and throb in rhythm to his heartbeat. Unconsciousness was beckoning him again, however as alluring as total oblivion sounded at the moment he knew he had to fight it. Reese forced his eyes open, and quickly shut them again; the world was still nauseously spinning. 

He heard footsteps drawing nearer until they were right beside his shattered window and he listened to the breathing of the person checking out the wreckage.

"Damn it," a deep voice said, "he's not in the car."

There was a pause, and the sound of a second set of steps drawing near to the passenger side filled the silence. _There are at least two of them._

"Hold on," the voice beside John's window said. Apparently he was only privy to one side of a conversation. Warm fingers touched his neck, checking for a pulse. "He's alive." There was another pause. "Roger. We're taking him with us."

The car shook as Deep-voice tried to open the driver's door. "It's stuck. Can you get to him on your side?" 

The passenger door opened with a jerk, then the car shook again as Deep-voice's silent partner proceeded to cautiously climb onto the seat. The man lifted John's head up. "Sure he's still alive? Doesn't look so good."

He let go off Reese's head, which limply dropped back down again. The man then tried to unbuckle John's seat belt, but ended up having to cut it. As soon as the seat belt released its hold over the ex-op's torso John let himself topple sideways and right into the man's arms. 

He was not exactly pulled gently out of his seat - his head, ribs and knee screamed bloody murder at the man-handling. Deep-voice had come around the car, and he bent forward to take John's legs after his partner had almost completely pulled him out of the vehicle. With one fluid and certainly unexpected motion Reese delivered a kick to Deep-voice's temple, driving the man's head against the car's metal frame. John didn't wait to watch him crumble to the ground. As the man holding onto his shoulders stumbled backwards Reese used the momentum of the kick to twist his body around and slip out of the man's grasp. Landing belly-down on the asphalt the ex-op immediately pushed himself off the ground, and charged the black-clad man in a low tackle, driving his right shoulder into his opponent's stomach. 

The impact was bone-jarring. Instead of soft flesh and muscle John's shoulder connected with the hard material of a bullet-proof vest, turning the attack into a more painful experience than he had anticipated. He had, however, attacked with enough force to drive the man off his feet, sending them both sprawling on the ground. 

Reese tried to push himself up, but the splitting pain shooting through his head rendered him momentarily immobile. He pressed his eyes shut as bright stars exploded in his vision and his stomach did a summersault. John knew he was losing precious seconds - seconds he did not have.

A heavy weight suddenly pressed down on his lower back, forcing John flat onto the ground. He struggled to get out from underneath the weight, but the man on top of him just pressed down harder. An arm snaked around his neck from behind, gripping him in a tight choke-hold. John's head felt like it was about to explode. With every passing second that his air supply was cut off his heartbeat seemed to be getting louder and faster until all he heard was a continuous roar. He gave up his fruitless tugging at the arm locked around his neck and blindly groped above his head for the man's face. John's vision went out of focus and he would have screamed at the pain the strain to his neck and spine caused, but all he managed was a wheezing gurgle. 

Finally his hands found what they were looking for and with his last remnants of strength Reese pressed his thumbs into the man's eyes and twisted. His assailant screamed in pain and let go of John's neck to clutch at his eyes. Bucking the man off his back, Reese scrambled away. He collapsed after a few feet, coughing and wheezing. His sight went in and out of focus and this time he couldn't calm his rebelling stomach. Losing the meager meal did make John feel slightly better but he needed precious seconds to catch his breath. Eventually he rolled onto his side and watched with dismay as the other man staggered back onto his feet. 

_Why can't you just stay down?_ John thought, and with a deep breath he ordered his battered body to obey. He was still struggling to get to his feet when the man came at him. Reese let himself drop to the side to avoid the kick aimed at his mid-section and with a quick twist of his body swiped the other man's feet out from underneath him. The man stumbled and fought to keep his balance, giving Reese enough time to finally get to his feet and to adopt a fighting stance. 

John blinked away the vertigo he'd felt since waking up in the car after the crash. As the man drew nearer with fists raised, the ex-op fixed him with a stare and waited for signs in his assailant's body language that would precede an attack. The man's left leg slid forward and the thrusting of his hip towards Reese let him know that the assailant's fist was soon to follow. John blocked the attack, deflecting the force of the blow with his left forearm, and delivered a quick jab to the man's ribs with his right fist. The pain shooting through his fingers reminded him a little too late of the vest the man wore.

Taking advantage of the opening in Reese's defences, the man's right fist flew towards John's face, and connected with full force to his jaw. A fist to the stomach drove the air out of the ex-op's lungs and he reflexively curled in around the pain. But before the man's fists were able to connect with the base of John's skull, he drove his shoulder into the man's torso, pushing him away and off-balance. The vest gave his attacker an unfair advantage, but it merely meant that Reese had to aim higher. 

John closed the gap between them, side-stepped another attempt at a punch to his face and grabbed a hold of the man's arm. In one fluid motion Reese pulled his assailant towards himself, simultaneously took one more step forward, twisted his hip to gain momentum and smashed his elbow against the other man's temple with a very audible crunch. 

The move had the desired effect and the man dropped to the ground like a stone. Reese stood over him, supporting himself on his thighs and breathing heavily. He was starting to regret that he hadn't appreciated the quiet start to this now already very long and strenuous day. "Why didn't you just stay down the first time?" he asked in between gulping breaths. Not really expecting an answer he straightened with a groan and patted his pockets in search of his phone. 

There was a popping sound behind him, then pain flared up in his back as what felt like a bunch of needles pierced through his scrubs top and into his skin. A millisecond later the pain increased a hundredfold, as electric current coursed through his body, burning his skin and causing his muscles to spasm. When the current finally let up, John's eyes rolled back into his skull and he limply collapsed over the unconscious body of his previous attacker.

 

_To be continued..._


	9. Chapter 8

Lionel Fusco had only spent the better part of 45 minutes in the presence of Wonder Boy's latest charity case, but he already understood why Reese had ordered him not to let the old geezer out of his sight. He couldn't pin-point exactly what had made him suspicious of the man, but Lionel had been a cop long enough, and been surrounded by all kinds of men who were up to no good, to have developed some kind of instinct on that matter. And Louis Candrall - or whatever the guy's name was - made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.

Lionel had tried engaging Louis in conversation when he first picked him up, but soon gave up on trying to tease some info out of the man. Granted, the tight-lipped and gruff responses could easily be attributed to the fact that someone had quite obviously tried to kill the man not that long ago. Hell, Lionel would have found it equally unsettling if that wouldn't have fazed the guy. Although he wasn't at all sure if it wasn't just an act to get him to leave his passenger alone. 

And then there were also _the looks_.

The way Louis's eyes had shot daggers at the cop from the backseat when he thought Lionel wasn't looking had set off an entire glockenspiel of alarm bells in Fusco's mind. _Just where do they always find these guys?_ Lionel asked himself. He clamped his mouth shut and drove the rest of the way to the safe-house in silence. 

They reached their destination without any major hitches and the detective dutifully escorted his charge to the inconspicuous door and knocked. A slightly harried-looking Harold Finch opened the door after a few uncomfortable seconds of silence. 

"Mr. Candrall ... I'm sorry, Mr. Mitchell. Welcome. Please, come inside."

"Candrall is fine," Louis said gruffly as Finch stepped aside to let the two men enter. "I haven't used my real name in so long, it sounds strange now."

"As you wish." Finch inclined his head in acquiescence, and securely locked the door behind them. Fusco moved to the side to greet a happily tail-whacking Bear - at least someone seemed to appreciated his presence - and to have a better angle from which to watch Mr. Gruffy interact with the Professor. Candrall was scanning the apartment, and Lionel doubted that those sharp grey eyes beneath the white, bushy brows missed anything before they eventually landed on Finch. "So, you're _The Partner_?"

Harold nodded, but made no move to offer the man a hand in greeting. "Yes. My name is Harold. I'm sorry that we have to meet under these circumstances."

"Uh-huh..." The grey eyes drew into narrow slits. "Who the hell are you guys? And what's gonna happen next?"

_Good questions_ , Lionel thought, shifting his attention to the Professor. The man's expression was as unreadable as ever.

"I'm sure that you have a lot of questions, Mr. Candrall. I'll try to answer them as best as I can. However there's an urgent matter I will have to attend to first. Please, make yourself comfortable. There's food in the kitchen," Finch said politely, indicating the kitchenette with a wave of his hand. "I'm sorry, but I will have to excuse myself now."

Turning around stiffly the hacker left the detective and Candrall behind, disappearing into the adjacent room without a further word. With eyebrows raised Lionel started to follow Finch, ordering Louis to stay put. He knew that he was technically letting the man out of his sight, but he had confidence in Bear to alert them if the man only so much as looked in the wrong direction.

He found the Professor sitting at a giant conference table where he'd set up his workstation, already engrossed in the monitor in front of him, while his fingers were flying over the laptop's keyboard. Finch only barely looked up from his screen as Fusco entered the room and closed the separating sliding door behind him.

"Thank you for your services tonight, Detective," Finch said into the monitor. "That will be all."

"Well, not according to Wonder Boy," Lionel groused. He ignored Finch's raised eyebrow, and asked a question of his own instead. "What's going on? Reese is in trouble, isn't he?"

The hacker directed a slightly annoyed look at the detective, then returned his gaze to the monitor. "I'm not entirely certain yet, but I lost contact with Mr. Reese approximately 25 minutes ago."

"That doesn't sound good," Fusco said, and walked around the table to see what the Professor was looking at. "What happened?"

"If I knew that, I wouldn't have said _I'm not entirely certain yet_."

If the snappishness was any indication to go by then it seemed like Finch was indeed very worried about his muscle. But then again, knowing the kind of trouble those two seemed to attract on a daily basis, Lionel figured the older man had all the right reasons in the world to be worried.

In one window on Finch's laptop feeds of traffic surveillance cameras were flicking across the screen. On a second window lines of code were multiplying in sync with the man's rapid typing.

"I've been monitoring the police radio," Harold explained. "It seems there was an accident reported corresponding to John's last known position. Detective Carter is already en-route to the scene."

"Okay. And what are you doing?" Fusco asked, pointing a finger at the screen. "You aren't trying to hack the police traffic surveillance system, are you?"

"No," Harold said matter-of-factly, "I already _have_ hacked the system. I'm currently adapting the algorithm of the facial and license plate recognition program in order to track the two SUV's that had been in pursuit of Mr. Reese. I managed to follow their movements for a few blocks, but it seems that I have lost them."

Finch's cell phone vibrated, generating a deep hum as it skipped across the table's wooden surface. Its display announced the awaited call from Detective Carter. He picked up the phone and looked at Fusco. "Let's hope your partner has better news," he said, before accepting the call. "Detective?"

 

_To be continued..._


	10. Chapter 9

The night felt quite decidedly dismal. Darkness had mercilessly descended upon the city's more remote areas where working streetlights were few and far apart. And the rain that had started about 10 minutes earlier ensured an even more impenetrable quality to the gloom. 

When Carter arrived at the scene of the 10-50 her stomach dropped. The flashing lights of a patrol car and an ambulance were flicking over the scene, reflecting in thousands of pieces of broken glass littering the asphalt, and flashing off the mangled remains of a car blocking the road. 

She stopped her car and got out. Passing through a group of onlookers she drew nearer to the twisted pile of metal. The driver's side door was severely dented, the window's glass scattered all over the inside. There was blood on the deployed air bag, as well as on the seats, and she had to swallow a lump that was forming at the back of her throat. From the little information that Finch had been able to give her, the chances were great that John had been involved in this accident. And her stomach was quite certain that it was his blood that she was looking at right now. 

"Excuse me, ma'am. I need you to stay back."

Carter turned to face the young uniformed officer, already digging for her badge in her pocket. "Detective Carter, Homicide," she said, flashing her credentials. "I just drove by and stopped to see if I could assist?"

The officer visibly relaxed immediately at seeing the gold shield and nodded. "Thank you, ma'am. Help's always appreciated."

Joss nodded and turned to look at the wreckage again, forcing herself not to pay attention to the bad feeling in her stomach, and to focus on acquiring information instead. "So ... what happened? Hit and run?"

"We just arrived on the scene approximately five minutes ago. But given this neighborhood and the condition of the car we're not treating this as an ordinary hit and run." 

"How do you figure that?" Carter asked with her brows knitted in confusion. 

"Well, for one we found this in the car," the uni said, pulling out two evidence bags containing a gun and a smashed phone. He then proceeded to walk towards the rear of the vehicle with Joss trailing behind. He used his flashlight to illuminate specific areas of the pile of metal in front of them. "And these bullet holes have raised several red flags."

"You think this may be gang related?"

The officer shrugged. "Gang or drugs. Or both."

"Well, did you get anything out of the driver?" Joss tried her best at keeping her voice neutral. There was just so much riding on the answer to this question. Was John still alive? And if so, how badly was he injured?

When the officer started shaking his head a knot in Carter's stomach started to pull tight. "It appears he or she has fled the scene. My partner is already checking the perimeter for signs of the driver and for witnesses to the accident. I've put out a BOLO for any vehicle with front end damage consistent with a head-on collision and called in for the crime scene techs. Hospitals have been advised to report newly admitted patients with injuries suggesting a vehicular accident."

Now that didn't really help to loosen the tight knot in her stomach. It was clear to her that John had been injured by the accident - or by any of the projectiles that had left neat, round holes in the trunk lid. There were only two scenarios that came to her mind: John had indeed fled the scene - and was now either wandering the streets, hopefully in search of a phone, or perhaps lying unconscious somewhere. The other possibility was that someone had taken him. Either scenario was unfavorable. 

But she couldn't let her worry distract her. She still had to play the role of a detached homicide detective who had stumbled upon the scene by accident. "Do we know who the car is registered to?"

"Yes, ma'am." The young cop took out his notepad, referring to his notes. "It's registered to a Claudia Blackwood."

"But we don't know if she was actually driving the car."

"No, ma'am."

Carter let her eyes wander over the scene and into the darkness of the streets that lay beyond, and sighed. If Reese was indeed out there, three people out looking for him wasn't going to be enough. "Have you called in for re-enforcements?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Okay," Carter nodded. "Looks like you've got this scene under control. How about I assist your partner with the canvass?"

"That would be appreciated, ma'am."

She circled the car in hopes of finding any indication as to what had transpired there earlier, and which direction Reese might have taken off in. However the rain had been busy washing away any clues. The only thing she was certain about was that the scene was a mess.

With nothing definite to go on Carter slowly took off into the dark streets, and hoped that she'd find John before someone else did. However a soft voice in her head kept telling her that they were wasting their time.

After she was sure she'd put enough distance between herself and the scene she pulled out her cell phone and dialed Finch's number, knowing that what she was about to report wasn't anything he wanted to hear.

"Finch?" she said, after her call was answered on the third ring. "John's not here."

There was silence on the other end, and Joss almost thought that her phone had lost the connection until Finch finally spoke up. _"I really had hoped for better news."_

"So, I gather you haven't heard from him yet?" Cater stopped, turned and looked back at the scene of the wreck, her levels of trepidation shooting up a few more notches. _One of these days I'll get an ulcer because of these two._

_"No, I have not. Are there any clues of what might have transpired, Detective?"_

"You could say that," Joss said - a humorless laugh escaping her lips. "I'm looking at the car I'm assuming John was driving. Or rather what's left of it."

"Detective!" the voice of the officer called across from the intersection, interrupting her conversation with John's boss.

"Hold on, Finch." She dropped the hand holding her phone beside her, keeping the connection open, and met the officer at the crash site. "Have you found the driver?" she asked and almost dared to hope that her gut feeling was going to be proven wrong.

"No. But a witness came forward claiming to have seen an injured person being transferred to a second vehicle." 

Carter had to seriously fight the urge to close her eyes and sigh in frustration. "Could the witness give you a description of the persons? Type and model of vehicle?"

Again, the officer shook his head. "Says it was too dark to make anything out but silhouettes, and that it was some kind of dark SUV."

_How very helpful_ , Joss thought. The distant sound of sirens drawing nearer finally announced the arrival of the re-enforcements. Using the commotion of the new arrivals as cover, Carter stole away towards her car with the intention of finishing her conversation with Finch in private. 

The moment she got behind the wheel of her unmarked police vehicle she put her phone to hear ear. "Did you get all that, Finch?"

_"Yes,"_ replied the hacker's matter-of-fact voice. _"It appears that Mr. Reese may have been captured."_

Joss closed her eyes and sighed. _Of course he has. Nothing easy with those two._ "Do you have any idea by whom?" she asked, slightly exasperated. In a way she already anticipated Finch's answer.

_"No,"_ he said slowly. _"But I think I know someone who does."_

Carter waited for him to elaborate. "Finch?" she asked eventually, but her only reply was silence. She looked at her phone in annoyance, confirming her suspicion that the man had hung up on her.

"Great," she muttered to herself. She looked at her watch. Her shift had officially ended an hour ago, however after seeing the remnants of John's car - and learning that he'd been taken by an apparently unknown third party - there was no way in hell that she could go home now and catch up on some sleep. The worry for John alone would keep her up, but she also wanted to be ready _when_ \- not if - the call for her assistance came. 

She had her hand on her keys in the ignition, but hesitated to turn them as she realized just what had gone through her head. Just a little over a year ago she would have gladly tossed 'The Man in a Suit' into a cell. And now, there she was, keeping vital information from the law and eager to assist both John and Finch in what she suspected were illegal activities.

And the most unsettling part: she didn't even feel guilty about it.

Shaking her head she turned the key and the car's engine purred to life. She had no idea where to go, but she also didn't have the desire to stand still. With a muttered curse Joss pulled her car away from the curb

Knowing John and the kind of trouble he and Finch liked to get into, she figured it was probably wise to pick up some more fire power...

 

_To be continued..._


	11. Chapter 10

"No ... But I think I know someone who does."

Finch ended the call with Detective Carter without further elaboration, and Fusco - who had plenty of experience with the duo's absent to vague explanations and cut-off calls himself - could easily picture his most likely pissed-off partner cursing her phone. But then again, Finch clearly had more important things to worry about. 

The moment he'd ended the call the hacker had been out of his seat, and was now quickly making his way back to the living room.

"Hey Finch, hold up," Lionel said as he hurried after him. For a guy with a limp the Professor certainly could move pretty fast if he wanted to. Turning around, Finch gave the detective a look that clearly stated that they had no time for this. However as much as Fusco agreed with that assessment, he needed some information first if he wanted to be any help at all. 

"Listen, Reese didn't trust the guy and I don't feel too fuzzy about him either. I can help you question him, but I need some background. Like, who is he? What's he done?"

"Well," Finch began, straightening his glasses and clearing his throat. "He claims to be Douglas Mitchell. Mr. Mitchell was a material witness to a mob killing forty years ago, who disappeared on the day he was supposed to testify. And apparently the mob knows how to hold a grudge."

"Forty years?" Fusco's voice was oozing skepticism. "You buying that?"

Harold sighed. He had to admit that it seemed to be far-fetched, but ... "His story has checked out so far, but I really haven't had time to dig deeper. And speaking of time, I'm sure Mr. Reese would appreciate it if we didn't waste any more."

Pulling aside the dividing door, Finch stepped into the living room area with Fusco right behind him. The old guy was sitting on the sofa, staring at Bear who had taken up a position of attention in front of him and was not letting the man out of his sight. _Jeez, not even the dog trusts him_ , Lionel thought.

"Mr. Candrall," Finch said, sounding both apologetic and urgent. "I know I promised you answers, but I'm afraid I will have to ask you some more questions first."

Candrall turned his head away from Bear to face the two men. "There's something wrong with your dog," he said. To prove his point the Malinois growled at him.

"Bear," Finch said, pointing to the dog's bed. "Plaats."

Bear's head swiveled back and forth between his master and the man on the couch before he trotted back to his doggy-bed. He lay down with a grumble, putting his head on his paws and keeping his eyes on the man with the weird smell.

Harold sat down beside Louis on the couch, and Lionel took up a standing position behind and slightly off to the side of them. He deliberately wanted to loom over Louis's shoulder, ready to play 'bad cop'. 

"Mr. Candrall, the people who tried to abduct you tonight..."

"You mean the people who tried to _kill_ me tonight?"

"Yes," Finch nodded, not fazed by Candrall's interruption. "What can you tell me about them?"

Louis stared at Harold with a dumbfounded expression. "What do you mean?"

"Well, for starters, who sent them?" Fusco spoke up from behind, propping himself on the sofa's backrest to lean into Candrall's personal space. 

Louis looked back and forth between the detective and Finch. "You mean you don't know? Then how the hell did you know they were coming for me?"

Harold had been both expecting and dreading that question. Under the circumstances, he knew that any reply he could give would be unsatisfying at best. Now, two pairs of eyes were looking at him - Detective Fusco was clearly as curious as their Number. Finch swallowed. "I didn't know they - whoever they are - were coming for you. I have ... a source that informed me that you were in some sort of danger. And although my source is never wrong it's ... a little sketchy on the details.

"That's why Mr. Reese was at your senior center tonight. To keep an eye on you and to gather intel."

"So, you just figured you would help a total stranger?" Louis asked.

"Yes."

"Why?"

A humorless smile stole across Harold's lips. It was a valid question. Simple and innocent, yet the true answer was much more complicated. On so many levels.  
In a way Finch was certain that the only person who truly understood and accepted his need to save the Numbers was Mr. Reese, even though Harold had never shared the whole story behind his reasons. And he most definitely was not going to start sharing now. So he opted for a simpler reply, which technically wasn't a lie either. 

"Because we can."

"That's the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard." Apparently Louis Candrall was not of the thankful type. 

"We still saved your ass tonight," Fusco said, figuring a little reminder of that fact wouldn't hurt. "How about some cooperation in return?"

Finch shot the detective a look. Not that he didn't appreciate Fusco's help, but Candrall didn't strike him as the kind of person who'd fold under intimidation. More like the exact opposite, if the knitted brows and set jaw were any indication.

"Mr. Candrall," Finch said, aiming for a diplomatic tone. "The reason I ask ... well, I have strong reasons to believe that whoever was trying to get their hands on you has taken John."

At that Louis's eyebrows shot toward his hair line. "They've got him? Does he know about this place?" He practically jumped off the sofa. "Never mind. We have to leave. Now."

Holding up both his hands in a placating gesture, Finch tried to calm the man down. "Mr. Candrall. Please, I assure you, you are safe here.

"Yeah? Wait until _he_ gets his hands on him!"

Harold had gotten up as well, and Fusco made his way around the sofa - ready to physically intervene.

Finch's patience - as limitless as it might seem - was rapidly coming to an end. He knew that he didn't possess an imposing stature, but if he had learned anything from Mr. Reese over the last year-and-a half, it was that a quietly intense demeanor carried a threat probably even better than a display of exaggerated anger. 

Dropping all niceties, Finch stepped close to Candrall and with a voice that allowed no argument he said, "My confidence in Mr. Reese to not disclose our location is 100 percent. And I promise, you will not leave this place until I know what happened to my employee."

Candrall's eyes roamed over Harold's determined face and he involuntarily took a step back at the intensity of the hacker's gaze.

"Now," Harold continued, pointing to the vacated furniture. "Sit down and answer my questions." Louis did as he was told, however this time Finch remained standing. "I'm assuming that the _he_ you were talking about is Silvio Taldore?"

"Yeah." Louis nodded. "He's been trying to kill me ever since I agreed to testify against him."

Finch and Fusco shared a look. "Mr. Candrall," Harold said and crossed his arms over his chest. "Mr. Taldore is 91 years old and currently resides in a nursing home with 24-hour-care. Are you sure about his involvement?"

"So what? That doesn't mean anything. I hid in one too, in case you forgot." Finch arched an eyebrow. He had to concede that their Number had a point. "Listen," Candrall sighed. "There's really not a lot I can tell you. I have been trying to stay well below Taldore's and his men's radar for the last forty years after all. All I'm certain of is that this is a waste of time. Just let me go and I swear you'll never see me again."

"I hardly think you should view trying to save the person who saved your life tonight as a waste of time, Mr. Candrall," Finch said icily. He was starting to understand why both Mr. Reese and Detective Fusco had issues with their latest Number.

"Oh trust me, it is a colossal waste of time," Louis replied testily. "Because - unless Taldore has changed drastically since the last time I've seen him - your friend is already dead."

 

_To be continued..._


	12. Chapter 11

The sound of hushed voices drifted in and out of John's consciousness like the swooshing waves of an ocean. With each new surge the voices grew louder and the words slowly started to make sense.

"... wants to talk with him," one of the voices - male and soft spoken - said. 

"Maybe he should have thought of that before he had you and your men nearly kill him!" another voice replied, not pleased. The second voice was also male, deeper than the first one and with a throatiness that spoke of much use and too many cigarettes over the years. "Tell him I will let ..."

The voices grew distant once more, turning into a soft background hum. Feeling slowly crept back into Reese's limbs. He was laying down, with his head resting on something soft. Spikes of pain pulsed through his head along with his heart beat. He felt nauseous and each thumb of pain seemed to increase his stomach's desire to empty itself of its meager contents. 

Next his ribs and left knee began to remind him all too eagerly that some parts of his body had rapidly met with unyielding materials. _Sore_ didn't even begin to describe how he felt. Nevertheless years of training had taught him to ignore his discomforts, and to push the pain to the very back of his mind.

Where the hell was he? And what had happened?

John's efforts at raking his brain succeeded in dredging up disjointed pieces of memories - a Number, a car chase, a gun fight - but it also caused his headache to up its game as well. His eyebrows involuntarily knitted together and his breathing intensified - and he knew he had given himself away.

"I think he's actually already coming around," the second voice - the older one - said, undercurrents of surprise raising its pitch.

John expected that that realization would be followed by efforts of expediting his awakening - like yelling and/or slapping his cheeks - but nothing happened. Instead he kept on breathing deeply through the waves of pain, working on calming down his upset stomach. 

Knowing from experience that opening his eyes now would be a rather unpleasant experience, Reese was tempted to just follow the darkness that still lurked around the edges of his consciousness. Yet he dismissed that thought quickly. So far he'd only managed to figure out the 'what happened'-part - well, mostly. He was still severely lacking information as to where the hell he was. The only thing he was sure of was that he was definitely not in one of Finch's safe-houses.

Blinking his eyes slowly open his optic nerves were immediately attacked by rays of light which sent in re-enforcements to the angry army of woodpeckers chipping away at his brain. He blinked a few more times, willing his eyes to stay open and eventually stared at a lazily spinning, clean, white ceiling. 

Well, that ruled out rundown warehouses or damp and badly lit cellars - places he had sadly become accustomed to waking up in with a headache and sketchy memory. It wasn't a hospital either. For that it was too quiet and the telltale smell of disinfectant was also missing.

Sensing movement to his right John tensed, only to realize that his arms and legs were restrained, rendering him practically immobile. And defenseless. 

His heart rate immediately sped up, pumping adrenaline-drenched blood through his system and chasing away the last remains of fog clouding his brain. As he fought against his restraints he became aware of a twinge in the crook of his left elbow. He turned his head and his eyes followed an IV-tube snaking its way from his arm towards a bag filled with a clear liquid hanging above his head. John started to really not like where this was going. He knew that there could be a very logical and harmless reason for the IV - he had been pretty banged up by that car collision and subsequent fight after all - but in his line of work the ex-op had learned to trust his paranoid side. And that side was reminding him that there was a great variety of drugs that would make him more talkative or lower his pain tolerance. 

"Relax," the second voice said - closer now. A grey-haired head with a wrinkly-skinned face appeared in John's field of vision, looming over him. "I'm a doctor. I don't want to hurt you."

_Not yet anyway_ , Reese thought, well aware that doctors and their knowledge of the human anatomy made for excellent torturers. Recognizing that burning his energy on fighting his bonds seemed to be futile at the moment, he allowed his muscles to relax and his body sank back into the mattress. He rolled his head to the side, trying to get a better sense of his surroundings.

In a way the room John found himself in reminded him of Finch's make-shift ER at one of his safe-houses. Clearly built with a different purpose in mind, it had been converted into a small hospital room, complete with a hospital grade bed, several monitors, IV-stands and what looked like a dialyses machine. Only the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves filled with hundreds of hardcovers and the dusty fireplace belied its once intended purpose. 

The blinds of the two big windows were drawn, but enough light still slipped through the slits to provide Reese with some sense of what time of day it was and how much time had passed. More than he would have liked.

There seemed to be only one exit and it was currently guarded by two muscular and no-nonsense-looking men dressed in familiar black BDU's.

"You've got a pretty nasty laceration on your left temple," the doctor said, drawing Reese's attention back to him. "It needed twelve stitches, and judging by the swelling and bruising I'd say your head got pretty knocked around. I'm going to be shining a light into your eyes. Please try not to flinch."

Armed with a pen-light the doctor raised the head of the bed and bent forward, getting close enough for John to pick up the smell of cold cigarette smoke off his clothes. The doctor stared intensely at his patient while alternately shining the light into the ex-op's eyes. Eventually he switched it off and leaned back. Reese blinked - dots of light continuing to dance in his vision for a few more seconds. 

"That didn't look that bad." The doctor leaned forwards again, this time holding up a finger. "Would you please try following this?" he asked, slowly moving his digit form left to right and back again. "Good."

This was really odd. In John's experience people who chased, captured and tied him down usually weren't that concerned with his well-being. And he especially did not expect this treatment from the mob if Louis's story was to be believed. However Reese's suspicion that their Number was full of crap was more and more creeping past 'gut-feeling' and into 'certainty' territory. 

"You've got a concussion," the doctor continued. "Which I think really isn't that surprising. You've also got a few bruised ribs but I did not feel any broken bones during my initial exam. So does anything else hurt besides your head and chest? Any nausea?"

Reese gave the question a few seconds of consideration. It probably would be easier to list the body parts that didn't hurt, but the aches and pains that his body seemed solely to be consisting of at the moment didn't indicate any major injury. His knee was still throbbing, but he wasn't about to admit that. Shaking his head he croaked, "No," and swallowed to lubricate his parched vocal chords. "I'm fine." 

The doctor raised an eyebrow and pierced his patient with a stern glare, clearly not believing it for a second. John could only guess by the stinging of fresh cuts and bruises on his face and the persistent feeling of slight nausea that he probably looked far from _fine_. But when he failed to cower under the doctor's glare the man sighed and gave up.

"Well from what I've heard - and compared to the other patients I've had the pleasure of treating tonight - you were pretty damn lucky then." 

The doc turned around to rummage within his black leather bag, which he'd placed on a chair beside the bed, freed a vial filled with a clear liquid and a syringe from its depths, and expertly filled the hypodermic with the liquid. Despite his best efforts to remain calm John felt himself tense. Sensing his patient's agitation the older man put his hand on Reese's shoulder in what was probably supposed to be a calming gesture. It didn't work.

The heat of the man's palm immediately and uncomfortably seeped through the thin fabric of the scrubs Reese still wore. "Relax," he said, while John's eyes never left the needle. "I'm just going to give you something for your headache and ribs." The doctor pushed up the shirt's short sleeve and wiped the exposed skin with an antiseptic. 

"I don't ...," John started to say, but ignoring his patient's protest the doc injected the drug into the ex-op's bloodstream in one fluid motion.

"There. That should also ease the nausea." He gave John a pointed look that clearly said that Reese had not managed to fool the man, and dropped the syringe into a waste basket. "With rest you should be fine, but if the headache and nausea get any worse or you experience trouble breathing I want you to see a doctor right away. Understood?"

Reese stared at the man's stern expression. He was definitely missing some important piece of information. So far the fact that he was tied down to a bed - possibly being drugged and guarded by two fellas who looked like they'd enjoy slowly ripping him apart limb by limb - didn't really instill the feeling that he would get the chance to see a doctor again. He eventually nodded his agreement and the man shot him another doubtful look.

Mumbling something under his breath the medic proceeded to take the IV-needle out of John's arm. "What was that?" Reese asked, keeping his tone only mildly interested.

"Just some saline solution to boost your fluid balance. Nothing to worry about." Well, John figured he'd know soon enough if that was the truth, although he didn't really have a reason to doubt the man. He did seem genuinely concerned about his patient. 

The doctor finished bandaging Reese's arm, packed his things back into his leather bag and walked over to the door, speaking to one of the guards. "Ideally he ought to rest, but if you promise to be deferential to his condition, then I don't see a reason why he couldn't talk to him."

The guard turned a pair of emotionless, icy blue eyes on the doctor. "Thank you," he said flatly, eyes cutting to the man on the bed. "We'll take it from here."

_Oh yes. This is where the fun begins._

_To be continued..._


	13. Chapter 12

The guards closed in on the bed without sparing the doctor another glance as he left. Silently efficient, one of the men pulled out a gun and pointed it at John's head, while the other unstrapped his arms. There were no words needed. One wrong twitch of a muscle and that would be it.

Reese's arms were only free for a few seconds as the man proceeded to re-tie them with a white, plastic zip-tie. Next he freed the ex-op's legs. They waited until their prisoner had swung his legs over the edge of the bed before they grabbed him by his upper arms and non-too-gently pulled him to his feet.

John grunted in pain as his knee protested against carrying his weight, and he probably would have taken an undignified tumble if it hadn't been for the vise-like grips around his biceps. At least the drug the doctor had given him seemed to have kept its promise - his headache had definitely decreased to a more tolerable level.

Biting down the pain, Reese did his best to keep up with his two lovely chaperons. They forcefully escorted him out of the room, and the gun pressed into his side reminded him that compliance was his best option at the moment. _So much for being deferential to his condition_ , John thought and swallowed down a remark that had been on the tip of his tongue. So far he was still able to walk more or less on his own, and he certainly wanted to keep it that way for as long as possible. 

They were crossing the foyer of what looked like a sizeable mansion, which lead Reese to suspect that he was not within the city limits of New York anymore. The glimpses of vast gardens framed with high-grown broad-leafed trees that he managed to catch through the entrance door's glass panes seemed to confirm his suspicions. Interesting. 

They walked past the grand-stairway and entered an elevator that seemed to have only rather recently been installed. They rode to the second floor with the smell of new machinery and fresh paint heavy in the air inside the car. Following the carpeted hallway down all the way, they stopped in front of a dark and heavy wooden door and the man to Reese's left - the one without the gun - knocked on it. 

After a brief moment a gruff voice answered, "Enter."

Within a couple of steps John found himself inside the mansion's study. Three of the four walls were once more covered in floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. Despite the dark wood covering the walls and ceiling the room was bright. A giant panoramic window set in the fourth wall allowed the late morning sun to bathe the room in light and offered an unencumbered view of the well-kept gardens outside.

At the end of the room stood an old and massive mahogany desk, and John could only guess how many generations of mansion owners it had seen. The one currently sitting behind the desk didn't seem to be paying any attention to them. Instead he had angled his chair at 90° and stared out of the window. He seemed miles away. 

John took in the man's profile. He sat slightly hunched over, the skin on his face sickly grey and heavily wrinkled. His eyes were sunken into their sockets. He looked frail and ancient - all signs that sickness had been waging war on his body. 

Reese's chaperons dragged him deeper into the room and stopped a good six feet in front of the desk. "Sir, your guest," one of the guards said. It was the same who had spoken with the doctor before, and John started wondering if the other could even speak. 

With an electrical hum his host moved his wheelchair back a few paces from the window, then turned to face the three men. It was clear from the moment the man laid his grey eyes on John Reese that while his body might have been failing him, his mind was certainly not. Those eyes, that were now openly inspecting his 'guest', were clear as crystals and John doubted that they would miss even the tiniest of details. The pair of white eyebrows above the eyes rose just ever so slightly as they took in the man in front of him. 

John hadn't seen himself in a mirror lately but he could easily imagine that he must be a pretty pitiful sight. His face ashen, cut, bruised and swollen. His scrubs, while not the most fashionable clothing choice to begin with, now torn, bloodied and dirty. At the moment he resembled more the bum he used to be than anything else. When the man was done scrutinizing Reese from head to toe, he nodded at one of the leather covered chairs in front of his desk. "Sit."

The guards let go of John's arms. The imprints of their fingers were probably going to stay with him for a while. Slowly, he lowered himself onto the chair. The grey eyes followed his every move. 

"My doctor told me that you were lucky." It was a statement given in a tone devoid of any emotion that the man might have had about the fact that Reese was still walking, while some of his men were ... not. Reese didn't reply. Instead he waited, his bound hands resting on his thighs, while he could feel the guards lurking behind him.

The man steepled his long fingers. He said, "You are probably wondering why you're here, aren't you, John?" A small smile crept across his lips. Reese was a master of the blank expression, but the mention of his name had taken him by surprise until he remembered that he was still wearing a name tag on his chest. There must have been only the slightest signs of confusion on his face - a minute raise of his brow, a quick twitch of his eyelids. John knew the man was assessing his poker face - and he had seen his tells. Clearly he had to be on his toes with this one. 

With the smile still pulling at his lips, the man said, "I know who you are." Again he watched for a reaction. This time Reese deliberately raised an eyebrow and the man's smile widened. "I must say I am a little disappointed at your appearance. Nevertheless it's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Man In A Suit."

The second eyebrow joined the first on John's forehead. "I thought he was just an Urban Legend," he said softly. "A dead one, the last I heard."

The man scoffed. "Please. I'm not the FBI. I'm not stupid." Leaning back in his chair the smile on the man's face had been replaced with a stern expression. "I make a point of knowing every player in my city." He opened a file in front of him - a good inch thick, tossing a shiny print-out of a surveillance camera still. "That is you, isn't it?"

John didn't move at first. Instead he relaxed into the chair and just looked straight ahead at his 'host'. Eventually he leaned forward - slowly. The black and white picture was grainy, but clear enough for him to identify the two persons captured in its frame. It was him in his customary suit, pulling a distraught looking Caroline Turing along with him. He remembered that case just all too well. The FBI had been hot on his heels, getting far too close. As had HR. And their Number had turned out to be a brilliant, yet more than slightly deranged hacker who had used him to get to Harold. Not one of his fondest memories. He leaned back and relaxed in his chair again. He didn't confirm the man's theory. He also didn't deny it.

"I've been following and studying your case since you first showed up. I know that you help people when nobody else will by using ... let's say, your own interpretation of the law. I must say, once upon a time I would have hunted you down and tossed you in with the rest of the criminal lot. I was a firm believer in the righteousness of the law, and that it belonged in the hands of the judicial system and not to some vigilante. However I was forced to come to the realization that the system is _flawed_. But I guess I don't have to tell you that," the man said, picking up the photo to look at it. He huffed, "Whatever idiot thought this man looked anything like the guy the FBI eventually declared was the Man In A Suit must have been blinder than a mole. Well, as entertaining as following the FBI's and NYPD's dilettantish efforts to apprehend you is, we are not here to talk about you.

"Tell me John, what do you know about the man you helped last night?"

Reese hesitated. He was more than aware that he knew precious little about the man who claimed to be hunted by the mob for witnessing a murder more than thirty years ago. Basically, the Machine had given them Candrall's Number, but they hadn't yet figured out why. He knew he couldn't admit that. Even if he could tell the man about the Machine, it still would make him sound naive and gullible. Instead he said, "Mr. Candrall looked like he needed help. So I helped."

"I bet you are already regretting that decision," the man said dryly and John smirked. _Touché_.

"Where are my manners? Would you like something to drink?" 

Reese shook his head. "No, thank you."

"Suit yourself. David, would you fetch me a Scotch, please?" 

The man at John's left shoulder hesitated at first, but then walked to the sidetable behind the desk to get his boss's drink. "You know, _Mr. Candrall_ and I go back a long time," the old man continued. David set a glass of water on the desk and the old man paused to glare at him before taking a few sips of the cool liquid. 

"Of course his name wasn't _Candrall_ back then." He picked up another file. It was thicker than the one he had about the Man in A Suit and looked decidedly older. The color of the folder had started to fade and the edges looked worn, as if it had been leaved through hundreds of times over the years, which probably wasn't that far from the truth. Pulling out a mug shot, he placed it on the desktop for John to see. It was an old black and white picture of a man around his forties. It didn't look like Candrall. But then plastic surgery and age could easily do the trick. It was the eyes. The man in the picture was defiantly staring back at John with the same ice cold eyes. "His name is Michael Giardino. A slick son of a bitch. Everybody knew that he cleaned up for Gambino, but there just wasn't a shred of evidence tying him to any crimes... or bodies for that matter. I would bet my fortune that quite a few buildings all over the city have been built upon the bones of those who got in the way of the mob's dealings." John took another look at the face on the mug shot, thinking that the real Douglas Mitchell probably was one of them. 

"I was an Assistant District Attorney for the City of New York back then." His eyes grew distant as his mind played back memories of a time long past. "I was young, successful and ambitious. Maybe too ambitious. I won't bore you with a lecture about the history of the mob. All you need to know is that I tried to get my hands on Giardino - tried to take him off the streets and maybe turn him State's evidence against the family. Gambino had been the most powerful leader of the "Five Families" at that time - his influence even reached to the control of other families. I was confident that with Giardino's cooperation we'd be able to deliver a serious blow to the entire Mafia organization in New York."

He paused to take another sip of water. "It took me a while, but I eventually found Giardino's weak spot. His son." He smiled at John. A small, sad smile. "Certainly not the brightest blub in the chandelier, but his daddy thought the world of him. He tried to follow in his father's footsteps, but luckily he lacked his old man's talents. I got him for _Kidnapping and Possession of a firearm with criminal intent_ , and I was planning on using him ... let's say as an incentive for his old man to volunteer his vast knowledge of the organization. 

"But I hadn't been the only one to figure out how to get to Giardino. Before I could even reach out to him, his son got shivved. The stupid idiot died on his second day in prison. And instead of blaming whoever ordered his son's death, Giardino blamed me."

He slipped another picture out of his file. It was a professionally taken portrait of a happily smiling three-person family. The father was unmistakably a younger and healthy version of the old and sick man in front of Reese. Next to him sat his wife - a blonde beauty with an easy, charming smile. She was resting a hand on the shoulder of her daughter. John estimated the girl to be around seven years old. The resemblance to her parents was undeniable - the same charming smile and blonde hair as her mother, with the intelligent grey eyes of her father. John studied the smiling faces and a bad feeling started growing in the pit of his stomach. 

Without another word or even a glance at them the former Assistant DA pulled out two more pictures and laid them on each side of the portrait. Although John had had a feeling that the man's story was going into a very dark direction he hadn't really been prepared for the images. He had seen a lot of horrible and cruel things in his career - some of which he had been part of causing himself. He had never been proud of killing people. True, it was something he was good at, but he only did it because - when it came right down to it - it was his job. However what had always set John Reese apart from his CIA colleagues was that he actually valued life - a characteristic the Agency did not really look for in its operatives and which he had kept an extremely well-guarded secret while working with the CIA. What constituted _collateral damage_ for his partners, John viewed as an innocent life he couldn't save. And wasn't that why they were doing the job in the first place? To save innocent lives? 

And no life was more innocent than that of a child.

Both mother and daughter had been tied to a chair. Their faces were tear-streaked and unnaturally white, and their eyes stared sightless into the distance. Their throats had been cut from ear-to-ear, leaving deep gashes that resembled grotesque, bloody smiles on both bodies. Their deaths had been messy - everything was covered in dark red, congealed blood. Reese's features hardened at the sight. 

Barely containing his fury, he looked up and asked with a low rasp, "He did this?"

There were tremors on the old man's face as he struggled to rein in his emotions. His eyes - which had been staring straight at Reese the entire time - were unfocused and gleamed with unshed tears. It was clear that the loss still heavily affected him - even after all this time. John didn't blame him.

"He made me watch," he said, his voice only a mere whisper. Tears began rolling down his cheeks, but he did not seem to notice. He was stuck in his memories. "I can still hear their screams."

He averted his gaze. A trembling hand reached up to wipe away the tears while he mumbled an apology. Having seen enough, Reese reached out with his bound hands, stacked the photographs into a small, neat pile and turned them face-down. Although he doubted that the former Assistant DA would ever be able to erase the horrendous memories from his mind, there was no need for him to see his family like that again.

"I'm sorry," the man apologized again. With his gaze still averted, he smoothed out the papers in the file before him. When he looked up again the tears were gone, replaced by a cold, hard stare. "The bastard broke into my house. Took away everything I held dear. And he let me live so _I knew what it felt like_." He barked a laugh that sounded more like a feral growl. "That son of a bitch didn't even bat an eye at his own son's funeral. I doubt he has _any_ idea what it feels like." His gnarled fingers had clenched into tight fists and it took some conscious effort to loosen them again. 

"After that night," he continued - calmer now - "Giardino disappeared. There were rumors that Gambino had taken care of his bloodhound himself, since he had acted without the sanction of the Commission. But I knew he was still out there, and the only thing that kept me from putting a gun to my head was my desire to put that bastard down. I put all my energy and resources into finding him, and even came close a couple of times over the last forty years, but never close enough. 

"Why he came back to New York, I don't know. Nor do I particularly care. I like to think of it as a gift to a dying, old man. Tonight was supposed to be the night. My last chance at getting even." He paused and tilted his head to the side. "But then you showed up."

John almost squirmed under the man's reproachful glare. If what he had seen and heard was true, Harold and he had royally screwed up. This was one of those moments where he wished that the Machine's instructions came with subtitles. 

Hiding his thoughts behind his careful blank face and having a fairly good idea where the former Assistant District Attorney was going with this, John said, "You want me to tell you where he is."

The old man's lips formed a thin smile and he held his hands over the table in an accepting gesture. 

"I can't tell you," Reese said. The smile on the man's face disappeared. "At least not without verifying what you have just told me." And not without a lengthy discussion with one Harold Finch. If it were up to John he'd hand over their Number in a heartbeat, but he doubted that Finch would so readily agree with his sentiment. 

"Of course." The man tried to hide his disappointment behind a big smile. "I guess you wouldn't want to help the wrong person. _Again_."

"Something like that. Yes."

The man fixed John with another long hard stare. Eventually he said, "Alright. From what I've read about you I think I know I can trust your judgment." He waved at the men still standing guard behind John. "David, free the man's hands, for God's sake." David stepped forward, his knife slicing through the plastic around Reese's wrists like it was cutting through butter. 

Rubbing his wrists to get the circulation in his hands flowing again, John looked at the man across from him. As much as he wanted to get back to the city as fast as he could - he had after all apparently left his friends alone in the presence of a ruthless killer without them knowing about it - he knew he owed him the truth. "You know I can't promise you."

"I know. And I appreciate your honesty." He looked down at the file, thinking, then picking it up. "Here. Take my file. It contains everything you need to know. And how to reach me when you have come to a decision." John reached out to take the file, yet the man wouldn't let go. The ice was back in his stare. "I want you to understand that this probably is my last chance at getting the justice for my family that Giardino deserves. And while we are being honest here, I want you to know that I want no trials, no lawyers, no appeals and no prison. I want him _dead_."

Reese held his gaze. There was no doubt that the old man would keep his promise. He nodded and the man let go of the file. 

"David. Take our guest back to the city."

 

_To be continued..._


	14. Chapter 13

It had been hours since Harold Finch had lost contact with John Reese and he was not just worried anymore - he was getting desperate. Despite their Number telling him more than once that John's chances of still being alive were next to nothing, Harold refused to give up on his employee. He knew part of his stubbornness had something to do with the irrational thought that Mr. Reese had been in tight spots many times since the beginning of their partnership - and most likely even before that. He had always managed to come out on top, just like he would this time as well. 

But as the hours passed without a word or any leads on his partner's whereabouts, Harold had to concede that his confidence in his irrational thoughts was waning. He had told John right at the beginning that they'd both most likely wind up dead. Would this be the day that part of his prophecy came true?

He had Detective Carter hunt down one known associate of Silvio Taldore after another, trying to figure out where he might have taken John for private questioning. All seemed to have been puzzled by the detective's line of questioning, and he trusted Carter's instincts when she confirmed that they didn't know anything. John hadn't trusted the Number, and Harold knew that Detective Fusco shared his sentiment. The hacker had to admit that in some way - and he couldn't put his finger on why - Candrall made the hair on the back of his neck stand up. The more leads that led to nowhere the more Finch was convinced the man was lying. But he doubted that unless they resorted to torture Candrall would change his story any time soon.

Harold had hacked the city's hospitals' computer networks in order to keep an eye on their admittance records, but so far no one matching Reese's description had been admitted. Just to be sure, he went through the data again. But he hadn't missed anything the first 15 times. 

He stared at his screen. There was one more database that he could hack. 

Finch knew it would take him no more than a few minutes, but so far he had refused to even think about it. His fingers lay still on his keyboard, and the cup of tea Fusco had placed beside him on the table had grown cold untouched. Slowly, his fingers began to move again, reluctantly initiating the protocols needed for this hack. By the time he'd cracked the system, his stomach had turned into tight knots. His eyes skimmed over the records and for the first time since John had gone missing Harold Finch actually prayed not to find anything. 

It had been a busy night for the city morgue - several gunshot victims, a few overdoses, and one stabbing. And none matched John's description. Harold let go of the breath he'd been holding and leaned back in his chair. His back was sending one painful spasm after another down his spine, reminding him that he'd been sitting for far too long. He took off his glasses and rubbed his burning, tired eyes. _Where the hell are you, John?_

The sliding door separating the conference room from the living room area slid back enough for Fusco to pass through. "Anything?" he asked after pulling the door shut behind him. 

"No," Finch replied, sounding tired and dejected. He donned his glasses and found his worry for Mr. Reese mirrored in Lionel Fusco's face. He realized that he shouldn't have been surprised. The time when the detective's cooperation had solely been based on Mr. Reese's admirable intimidation techniques was long past. 

"How is our guest?"

"Snoring on the sofa. Bear's watching him." Fusco stepped up to the table, leaning against the backrest of one of the lavishly cushioned chairs opposite Finch. "What are we gonna do?"

_Yes, indeed. What were they going to do?_ Harold studied the detective's face as he pondered that question, and mentally cringed at the look of expectation directed at him. He knew that he was supposed to be the one with all the answers. And Lionel Fusco had proven himself to be eager to follow without asking too many questions - a characteristic that had at first led Finch to peg the detective as not overly smart. But now, looking at the worried, yet eager look on the man's face, all Harold Finch saw was trust. Trust in him knowing what to do. 

Yet, he didn't.

The logical part of his brain told him that he had already wasted too much time on the search for Mr. Reese - that he had already violated his own rule. The one he kept reminding John of every time he let his protectiveness over his employer show through: the Numbers came first.

However this Number had frustratingly proven to be anything but straightforward. He averted his gaze, knowing that what he was about to say would seal the fact that Mr. Reese was on his own - wherever he was. "I think it's time that Mr. Candrall and I discuss his options."

There was a pause and Finch felt Fusco's gaze upon him, but he refused to meet the other man's eyes. "I know you don't really care for my opinion, Finch," the detective eventually said, his tone quiet and grave. "But something is not kosher about the guy and I think you should just let him go and stay _very_ clear of him."

Oh, how Harold wished he could do that. 

Just then a window popped up on his screen, its flashing drawing his attention. "Oh, thank God," he whispered under his breath as he looked at the contact alert in relief. Someone had used a pay phone in Queens to initiate his _contact re-establishment protocols_ and the codes used confirmed that it was Mr. Reese calling, and that he - thankfully - was not under duress. 

"What is it?" Fusco asked, but Finch ignored him. His fingers flew over his keyboard, establishing a return call within seconds. The phone was picked up on the first ring and Harold literally blurted out, "Mr. Reese? Are you okay?"

_"Yes Finch, I'm fine."_ John's soft, raspy voice came over the loudspeakers of Finch's laptop and he actually shared a small, happy smile with the detective. "I'm so glad to hear that."

_"Is Candrall still with you, Finch?"_ John asked. 

Puzzled at the urgency in Mr. Reese's voice, Finch knitted his eyebrows. "Yes, he is."

_"Is he listening?"_

"No."

_"Good. Is Fusco still there?"_

"I'm here," Fusco said, sharing a look with the hacker.

_"Listen, I have reasons to believe the man is very dangerous. Don't - under any circumstances - let him out of your sight until I get back. Do you understand, Lionel?"_

"John, what's going on?" Harold asked. His employee's low and angry tone was starting to unsettle him.

_"Not over the phone. I'll explain later."_ Reese paused. _"Lionel?"_

"Yeah, yeah, I'm going," the detective groused, but Harold could see that Reese's warning had also more than alarmed the man. 

"Are you sure you are alright, John?" Harold asked as soon as Fusco had left. The ex-CIA agent certainly sounded like his usual intimidating self, but Finch thought he had detected a slight strain in the man's voice. 

_"I'm fine,"_ John said. _"I need a ride, though."_

"Certainly. I will have a car pick you up."

_"Thanks."_ There was another pause, and before Reese hung up he - with the edge to his voice gone - added, _"Be careful, Harold."_

Finch swallowed. He knew that it took a lot for John Reese to be disconcerted, but something about their latest Number had clearly troubled him. He quickly arranged for John to be picked up. The sooner Mr. Reese was back, the better.

Harold startled. Bear was barking, a continuous high-pitched and agitated bark. Stiffly getting to his feet with his back still protesting, Finch slowly walked over to the sliding door. "Detective Fusco?" he tentatively asked as he stepped into the adjacent room, carefully looking around. 

Bear was furiously barking from within the bathroom and madly trying to scratch his way out through the wooden door. Fusco lay in a motionless heap in front of the sofa. Blood was trickling from a nasty cut on his forehead down into the light-colored carpet. An arm snaked around Harold's neck from behind, tightly pulling him against a warm, hard body. The cold metal of a gun pressed against Finch's temple. _Probably the detective's weapon_ , Harold's brain deduced, happier to solve the riddle of how Candrall had gotten a gun than to contemplate what the man was planning on doing with it.

"Alright." Candrall's warm breath tickled the billionaire's ear and a cold shiver ran down his spine. "I'm done asking nicely. Open the goddamn door."

Harold tried to swallow, but his mouth had turned as dry as a desert. "I'm afraid I can't do that," he said with a surprisingly steady voice. He winced as the gun was shoved even harder against his skull.

"Don't try my patience. It's been tested for way too long already."

Candrall forced Finch forward towards the door. Harold's mind was racing, trying to compute all the various outcomes to this situation. John wouldn't be here for at least another hour and he doubted that he could stall their Number that long. His train of thought was interrupted at hearing the gun's hammer being cocked and the click of the safety being disengaged. 

"I think I should warn you," Finch said, panic now creeping into his voice after all, "that John is on his way back here. If you kill me, not only will you not get out of here, you will also make my associate very angry. And believe me, you _do not_ want to do that."

Candrall stopped, thinking. "Alright." He brusquely pushed Finch away. Harold stumbled forward, just barely stopping himself from falling by grabbing the sofa's backrest. Keeping the gun leveled at Harold's chest, Candrall walked around the sofa. He stopped at the prone figure of the detective laying on the floor. He smiled coldly at Finch and pointed the muzzle down at Fusco's head. 

"If you don't open the door I will start by shooting him. Then the dog. Then you." He stared at Harold with eyes so cold that the hacker had no doubt that he would do exactly that. He continued in the same matter-of-fact voice, "And I'm sure there will be enough bullets left to give your associate a very warm welcome. What shall it be, Harold?"

Finch stood frozen, staring at the gun in the older man's hand. Candrall's trigger finger twitched. "Don't!" Finch yelled, raising his hands in a gesture of surrender. "I'll open the door."

The gun moved from Fusco towards Finch in an arch, and Harold's heart skipped a few beats as he stared down the muzzle. He briefly wondered if he would be able to see the muzzle flash before the bullet ripped into his skin. The gun in Candrall's grip waggled, indicating for Harold to move over to the door. 

With his hands still raised and the uncomfortable feeling of the gun pointing somewhere between his shoulder plates, Finch climbed the stairs leading to the entrance door. He could hear Candrall following him as he punched in the numbers to the electronic lock system. The dead bolts moved into the 'open position' with an audible click. 

"Is it open?"

"It's open," Harold confirmed, still staring at the number pad in front of him.

"Turn around."

Harold hesitated, a feeling of trepidation blossoming in the pit of his stomach. He started to turn around. He didn't see the muzzle flash, nor did he hear a gunshot. 

There was hot, agonizing pain. And then nothing. 

 

_To be continued..._


	15. Chapter 14

Having circled the block twice already without seeing anyone remotely resembling John Reese, Joss Carter was starting to worry if maybe Finch had given her the wrong address. As she waited at a traffic light, Joss's eyes roamed the streets. There was a bus stop with a couple of old pay phones to her left. A few people were waiting at the stop for the bus uptown. She scanned their faces and cursed under her breath. Her shift had ended hours ago, and only the adrenaline and worry of finding John - who was most likely injured - had kept her going well beyond the point of exhaustion. The relief of Finch's call had also brought fatigue crashing down on her. She was tired and irritable, and starting to lose her patience.

A knock on the passenger side window startled her and new adrenaline was being rapidly pumped through her system. "Jesus Christ!" She unlocked the car doors and watched as John folded his long frame into the seat beside her and the cars behind her started to blow their horns as the light turned green. She crossed the intersection before turning to the man beside her. The worry-fueled tirade that lay on her lips died the moment she got her first real look at Reese. 

Saying that he looked worse for wear was an understatement. Normally she would have cracked a joke at his unusual attire. But when she saw that the blue scrubs top he was wearing was severely stained with dark splotches that looked suspiciously like dried blood all wisecracks were forgotten. She only saw a glimpse of the left profile of his face before she had to refocus her attention back on the road, but she couldn't help but notice that the color of his face nearly matched the thick, white medical plaster that was doing a poor job of covering up a blue and purple bruise at his hairline. 

She took another look, and before she could stop herself she said, "You look like crap."

"Nice to see you too." John frowned. Well, he tried to, but it ended up morphing into a painful wince. The drug the doctor had given him was wearing off and his head was starting to let him know. But he couldn't worry about that. Not yet.

"Seriously, John, you look like you could use a doctor," Carter sounded annoyed, yet the crease in her brow gave away her worry. 

"I'm fine. Just get me back to the safe house," John said tersely. He pointed at medical plaster on his head. "Besides, I already saw a doctor."

Joss's hands gripped the steering wheel tightly as she navigated the streets. Reese's act of nonchalance would have just annoyed her on any other day. But today she was tired and worn out enough to be getting pissed off at his disregard for his own well-being. The way he squinted at the sunlight and the hard lines of pain around his eyes and tightly drawn mouth told her more than he probably would have liked her to know.

"You know, there's no shame in admitting when you are hurting. You are not Superman. And no one expects you to be."

Reese turned his face and looked at Carter's profile. The low anger in her voice had surprised him. "I _am_ aware of that," he said.

Joss threw him a quick glance. "Are you?" she asked, then faced forward again to stare out the windshield. "With the crazy stunts you pull, and getting yourself into trouble like this all the time, I'm not so sure."

John looked at her for a few more seconds, then his gaze traveled to the city outside the windshield. He knew that somehow Joss Carter had gotten it into her head that he was a good man. A man worth saving. But he had a feeling that trying to dissuade her from that notion would not go over well at the moment. It must have been just as long a day for the detective as it had been for him. 

"Actually," he said with a small smirk playing around his lips. "I think I'm more like Batman."

Carter shook her head, smiling against her better judgment. She knew that he was trying to deflect. "You know," she said, growing serious again, "even Batman got defeated once, when he allowed himself to be chased from one crisis to the next without stopping to rest until he was running on fumes - both physically and mentally. He was no match for Bane then, and literally got his back broken."

She threw Reese a glance and couldn't help but smirk at his raised eyebrows and the mix of amusement and astonishment on his face. "I never took you for reading comics."

"Teenage boy, remember? I may have picked up a comic here and there. And I sat through hours of rambling about how the movie totally butchered the original storyline..." She trailed off as John's smile grew wider. She stopped the car at a red light, and turned to look at him. "What I'm saying is, don't let Finch and whatever you two do be your Bane."

John's smile wavered. "Careful Detective. You almost sound like you actually worry about me." He deliberately kept his tone light and teasing. But this time there was no answering smile on the detective's face. 

"We all do, John. We all do."

Reese averted his gaze, and Joss sighed. "Just try not to get kidnapped again and promise me you'll get some rest."

"I will," John said softly. "After this case is over."

"Fair enough." Carter nodded. She knew that was as good of a concession as she would get. John turned his head to look outside his window and Joss was more than content to let him brood over what had just been said in silence for the rest of the trip. 

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"John?" 

Reese startled awake, blinking at the bright daylight and definitely not remembering having fallen asleep in Carter's squad car. He immediately recognized the neighborhood and that they were parked down the street from Finch's safe-house. He rubbed his hands across his face to dispel the remaining fog of sleep and with one hand on the door handle he turned to the detective. "Thanks for the ride."

Carter eyed him warily. "You know that nap does not count as 'rest'," she said with more than slight exasperation. John chuckled. "It was worth a try."

Shaking her head, Joss watched as Reese stiffly climbed out of the car. If the wreckage of the car that she had seen was any indication than she was pretty sure that John Reese's body was just one gigantic sore spot. She still couldn't believe that the guy was actually still walking and cracking jokes like nothing at all had happened. Luck of the crazy, she assumed.

Turning around and bracing himself on the roof of the car, John bent into the open door. "Go home and get some sleep yourself, Detective." He shut the door before Carter could reply, gave the car's roof a few raps and started to walk down the street. Joss watched him for a few seconds. He was favoring his left leg, turning his usual smooth gait slightly uneven. She blew out a breath, then turned the key in her ignition. Truth be told she didn't know who was crazier: John, for repeatedly and voluntarily putting himself in harm's way or her, for actually going along with his crazy methods. 

Deciding that further inspection of that question would only lead to unwanted answers, Carter put her car in drive and let the task of finding the quickest way home to her bed through the city's usual mad traffic be her biggest problem for the moment. 

 

_To be continued..._


	16. Chapter 15

Before John had even called Harold, he had employed all tactics he could think of to shake a tail - even though he hadn't seen anyone following him. But one could never be too sure. He hadn't seen any suspicious cars following him and Carter before falling asleep. He mentally berated himself for allowing his body to give into its exhaustion. Maybe he was getting soft after all? Instead of going straight to Finch's safe-house he walked past it and followed the street for a few more blocks, while inconspicuously scanning his surroundings for unwanted company. 

Reese circled back and used a shortcut through an inner courtyard that he knew had a second exit. He waited for several minutes. If someone was indeed following him, he would have no choice but to step out into the open area eventually. After a few minutes a couple of kids with a basketball entered the yard at the other end, noisily making their way to one of the apartment building's entrances. Satisfied that he was on his own, John stepped out of his hiding place and hurried back towards Harold's safe-house at as fast a pace as his knee would allow. 

John knew something was wrong the moment he entered the building. Bear's agitated barks were echoing through the stairwell and his hand instinctively went for his gun at his back only to come up empty. Silently cursing, he hugged the walls and carefully made his way up the flight of stairs. As he reached the hallway Bear started to alternate between high-pitched barking and pitiful whining, and a cold shiver ran down John's spine. He looked around for something he could use as a weapon, but the hallway was as barren as he had remembered it. With all of his senses on high-alert and his adrenalin-fueled heart pumping rapidly in his chest, John slowly crept towards the cracked-open door of their safe-house. 

Bear stopped barking as he picked up his Alpha's scent and the hallway turned unsettlingly quiet. With his back towards the heavy door, Reese slowly pushed inwards. Something was in the way. The door only moved enough to open a crack large enough for John to slip through. He knew the layout. There was a short flight of stairs leading down to the open and spacious living room area. Plenty of cover for whoever might be waiting for him on the other side of the door. And absolutely no cover for him. 

Risking a glance, Reese quickly withdrew again and replayed what he had seen in his mind's eye. The apartment had appeared to be empty. Taking a last deep breath, he whirled around the door and quickly dropped into a low crouch, scanning the open area in front of him. He stayed where he was for a few seconds, listening and ready to bolt at the slightest sign of movement. All he could hear was Bear starting to whine again and his nails scratching at the expensive wood of the bathroom door. 

Slowly righting himself, John stopped in mid-motion as his eye fell on the object that had hindered the door from opening. A pair of shoes. Made of expensive leather. Finch's shoes. For a moment Reese stared at them, not willing to let his eyes travel along the still legs of his friend for fear of what he might see. 

Harold lay awkwardly sprawled on the floor. His glasses had gone flying, lying almost a foot from his head. His eyes were closed. His face was unnaturally pale. And he wasn't moving. 

It took Reese a staggering effort to control his emotions, but he pushed them down like he had been trained to do. He took a few steps, and crouched down again beside his friend's head. With one eye still on the living room area, John reached for Harold's neck and gently placed two fingers on his carotid. The skin he touched was warm and it fluttered along with a strong heartbeat. Closing his eyes in relief John exhaled the breath he'd been holding. _He's still alive._

Harold jerked underneath John's touch and his eyes flew open. With his breath coming in short, shallow gasps, Finch's wide and unfocused eyes stared up at John as the older man tried to squirm away from him. 

"Harold, it's me," John whispered and placed a calming hand on Harold's shoulder. Finch stopped his squirming and squinted myopically up at him, "Mr. Reese?"   
Reese reached for the pair of glasses on the floor and handed them to his employer. They were bent and crooked, allowing John to surmise the strength of the blow they must have absorbed.

Harold looked around confusedly until a sharp stab of pain in his head reminded him of what had happened. He groaned and reached to the painfully pulsing spot where Candrall had connected the butt of the gun with his forehead. He could already feel a lump forming and his fingertips came away with blood. John's jaw muscles flexed at the sight, but he silenced Harold with a forefinger to his lips before Finch could reassure him that he was fine. "Stay here," John ordered in a soft yet firm voice. 

Harold nodded. Although he doubted that Mr. Candrall was still around he knew Mr. Reese would only be satisfied once he had cleared the entire apartment himself. He sat up and watched as John stealthily checked the few rooms before crouching down besides the sofa. With a stab of guilt Finch realized that he had forgotten about the detective. Stiffly and with a pounding head Harold got onto his feet. "Is he alright?" he asked, as he limped down the steps. 

"He'll live," John said tersely as he straightened. 

Limping over to the detective, Harold knelt down beside him. "Detective?" He tried to rouse the unconscious man. Despite Mr. Reese's unconcern regarding the detective's well-being, Finch was beginning to worry. How long had he been unconscious already?

He tried gently shaking Fusco's shoulder. Lionel moaned, but didn't seem to be in any kind of a hurry to return to the conscious world. Bear - who had finally been freed by Reese - trotted towards Finch with his head and tail low. With a soft whine he started licking the detective's face. Clearly a technique Finch would not have thought of, but it seemed to be doing the trick. Fusco's face wrinkled in a grimace. He moaned again - this time louder - and moved a hand towards his head. 

"Detective?" Harold asked again.

"Gnnnh, my head." Fusco blinked his eyes a few times and seriously considered just keeping them closed for a few more minutes - or perhaps a couple of days. But even in his befuddled state - where he was having trouble remembering how he'd ended up on the floor with a splitting headache - something told him that now was not the time to pass out again. And had Finch just licked his face? 

Eventually the fuzzy blob looming over him turned somewhat sharp and Lionel was able to discern Finch's apprehensive-looking face from Bear's. A third head bent over him. And this time Fusco immediately recognized the sour-looking face.

"You had one job, Lionel," Reese rasped in that tone of voice he seemed to primarily reserve for making Fusco's life miserable. Lionel blinked up at Mr. Tall, Dark and Vexed and tried to make sense of the situation. And as the memories slowly returned, Fusco grimaced. _Yep, one job and you blew it._

Fusco tried to push himself off the floor, but had to still his movements when the room started to turn into a merry-go-round. Both Finch and Reese helped him the rest of the way and guided him to the sofa, where he sat down with his head in his hands. 

"I think the detective needs to see a doctor," Finch said. 

"He can wait," John replied and tossed Fusco an ice pack. Harold allowed himself to be gently coaxed into sitting down beside the detective, and he watched Mr. Reese ready anti-septic wipes and band aids. He grimaced as he gave his associate a thorough once over, taking note of the marks the events of the last 24 hours had left on his clothes and body. John knelt down in front of him and started to gently attend to the cut on Finch's forehead. 

Harold sighed. When he had first received the Number of an 82-year old he had actually entertained the idea, that with their track record this case couldn't be all that difficult. _Overconfidence indeed precedes carelessness ..._

"So," Harold said and John stopped what he was doing to look at him. "Mr. Candrall ... not a former bookkeeper, I assume?"

 

_To be continued ..._


	17. Chapter 16

"Any news?" John asked as he walked into the library with a steaming paper cup in his hand. Looking up from his monitors, Finch gratefully accepted the hot beverage. He actually couldn't remember the last time he had had something to drink or eat. After Mr. Reese had briefed him on what he had learned about their Number, Finch had returned to the library for full access to his system while John begrudgingly had taken a wobbly Detective Fusco to see a doctor - but not before changing into his customary black-suit-white-shirt-no-tie attire. 

After what Finch had seen in the file John had given him, he understood the ex-op's obvious burning desire to get his hands on their Number. But he was not about to let his friend face-off with a man who was capable of such atrocities without knowing everything there was to know about Michael Giardino. Besides, they didn't really have a clue where to start looking for him.

"Actually, I was about to call you," Finch said, after emptying half of his tea. "How is the detective?"

John walked up to the cracked glass board, and studied the collection of pictures taped to it. There was Louis Candrall's sullen looking face from his ID picture on the far left of the board. Taped underneath it, a younger and pre-plastic surgery version of the same man - with the same cold eyes - was staring from a mug shot of Michael Giardino. Finch had also found an official picture of the young version of the former District Attorney, which he had taped on the far right. _A.D.A. Richard Sheffield_ the caption read, and John realized that until now he hadn't even known the man's name. 

However Reese's eyes were drawn to the picture in the center. He had seen it before, but knowing what had happened to Sheffield's wife and daughter and looking at their happy faces now made his stomach twist. He tore away his gaze and turned his back on the smiling faces. "He's fine. A few stitches. Maybe a headache for a few days." John shrugged. "Fusco's got a thick skull."

"I'm glad to hear that." Finch could certainly feel for the detective. Every beat of his heart reminded him exactly where their Number's gun had connected with his skull. And by the still more than slightly battered looks of Mr. Reese, Harold figured that aspirin - or something stronger even - was definitely going to be part of his friend's diet for the next couple of days as well. Finch gingerly placed his empty tea cup on the table, fully aware that John was more interested in what he had been able to find out than in the detective's or his own well-being. He cleared his throat. "So far I have been able to verify everything that is in Mr. Sheffield's file." 

Reese looked back at the glass board and at Candrall's face, his hands drawing into fists at his side. "He played us," he said in a low, angry voice. "Any idea where he's now?"

"Far away from the city if he's smart," Finch replied dryly. He got up and walked over to the printer to retrieve a print-out. 

"There must have been some reason for him to return to the city," John said. "I highly doubt the senior care system was a determining factor."

Finch stepped up beside him. "I checked all of Mr. Giardino's known associates. Most of them are either dead or in prison ... or want him dead themselves." John turned to look at Harold's profile. "He did burn quite a few bridges with the Gambinos when he decided to act without the permission of the Commission," the hacker explained, twisting his upper body to share a look with his partner before returning his focus back to the board.

"But you've found something," John stated, referring the print-out Finch was still clutching in his hands. 

Harold reached forward and taped another ID photo on the glassy surface of the board. It showed the timidly smiling face of an elderly gentleman - Reese put him somewhere in his sixties - with sparse, grey hair and a wrinkled, almost too gaunt looking face. John had never seen him before. 

"Tony Peralta," Finch said. "He spent the last forty years at Rikers, serving - among others - a life-sentence for the murder of Michael Boles - Giardino's son. He was paroled three months ago."

"About the time Louis moved into the retirement home," John said slowly. He had a feeling that he already knew where Finch was going with this.

Harold nodded. "The _Harmony Health Center_ is actually located only five blocks from Mr. Boles' apartment."

"He was casing his next kill. Revenge for his son. But whatever he was planning, thanks to us and Sheffield's men, he'll have to hustle it along. I bet, wherever he is," Reese tapped the picture on the board, "Giardino won't be far."

"Or he could have left the city," Finch interjected.

John gave the thought a few seconds of consideration. "He could have, but I don't think he did. He didn't strike me as someone who would be dissuaded so easily - not without accomplishing what he came for." 

Finch thought about John's reasoning, not entirely convinced. But then again, he'd never understand the reasoning of a sadistic killer. "In any case, it's our best bet. And it puts Peralta right in the crosshairs."

"Do we know where he is right now?"

"He's currently safe, working a late shift at a laundry shop. He'll get off in about an hour."

"Send me the address," John said, already on the move towards the stairs.

"Mr. Reese, wait," Finch called after his partner. "What are you going to do with Mr. Giardino if you find him?"

Reese stopped, raised his head to look at the ceiling and breathed in slowly, and without turning around he said, "I haven't made up my mind yet." 

Finch watched John's rigid back as he disappeared through the library's metal lattice gate. Even though he knew that the cold tone to John's voice wasn't directed at him, it still had made a shiver run down his spine. He was quite aware of what the ex-op was capable of; he knew that John did not take kindly to people who hurt women or children. And he also knew that when John made up his mind - no matter how much he'd try to appeal to his conscience - he wasn't going to be able to stop him. 

"Oh dear."

 

_To be continued..._


	18. Chapter 17

He'd been standing outside the laundry shop where Tony Peralta was nearing the end of his shift for the last thirty minutes. His eyes never left the side door that he knew Tony would step out of any minute now. The door opened, and a group of people tightly wrapped in coats to ward off the unseasonably cold evening air stepped out onto the sidewalk. His heart-rate sped up and he pushed himself off the wall of the doorway he'd been hiding in as he scanned the faces and frames of the people. However none was a match for the man he was waiting for.

He huffed in annoyance and cowered back into the concealment of the evening shadow. He knew that time was not on his side. The sooner he could get this over with the faster he'd be getting out of Dodge. He watched as a night-shift worker neared the side entrance marked _Employees Only_ , but before she even reached the door it was pushed opened from the inside. He perked up. He easily identified the man holding the door open for her and letting her pass before he stepped out onto the sidewalk as the person he'd been waiting for. 

Following his target on the other side of the street for a few hundred yards, he checked around to make sure the coast was clear. Using a lull in traffic to cross, he fell in step behind the unsuspecting Peralta. It was still too soon to act. There were too many people on the sidewalk with them. But his mark was going to turn into a less populated side street on his way home very soon. And he already knew the perfect place to hide his body.

He hadn't planned on doing it like this - so quick and without style. He wanted to see the fear and pain in the man's eyes. That had always been his favorite part - not the torture and act of killing itself, but the look in his victim's eyes when they realized that he was going to be the very last thing they were ever going to see. _Exhilarating._

He was quite aware that he was taking a risk by going through with his plan. But leaving without accomplishing what he'd come here for in the first place was not an option. Checking his surroundings again for anything suspiciously out of the ordinary, he smiled to himself as Peralta turned into the side street as expected. He shook his right arm, letting the homemade knife - similar to the shiv Peralta had used on his son - drop into his open hand. He was so close now.

One last look around and he followed his target into the deserted street, speeding up his steps. His heart rate was elevated - not from the exertion of catching up with Peralta but from the well-known thrill of honing in on a kill. A few more steps and his knife would slice through skin, cartilage and veins, and spill Peralta's blood in an arterial spray all over the side walk. He could already picture it in his mind and imagine the coppery taste of blood in his mouth as he raised his arm, ready to strike.

Suddenly something heavy plowed into him, pushing him into a small alley between two buildings. He was shoved hard against a wall and the hand holding his knife was knocked against the bricks with tremendous force, forcing him to drop it to the ground. A forearm pushed against his throat, cutting off his air, and he struggled to get out of the tight grip on his body. He stilled his movements when a gun was pressed against his temple. The hammer was pulled back with an audible click. 

"Miss me, _Louis_?" John Reese asked in a low, predatory whisper as he got right into Giardino's face. He increased the pressure on the squirming man's windpipe. "Give me one good reason why I shouldn't just put a bullet through your lying, murderous brain right here, right now?"

John looked Giardino right in the eyes. There was no fear or remorse, only anger and contempt. Given the chance the man would kill him without batting an eyelid - just like he'd killed Sheffield's family. He pressed his gun harder against the killer's skull and his trigger finger left the trigger guard. 

_"Mr. Reese. Please,"_ said Finch's pleading voice in his ear. _"That's not what we do."_

John closed his eyes and his nostrils flared as he blew out a breath. He knew Harold was right. He had killed less deserving men than the scum now in front of him during his time as a soldier and a CIA-agent. But back then he had been following orders. If he killed Giardino now, he would kill him because he wanted to. And how would he be different from the murderer in front of him then?

When he opened his eyes again, they mirrored Giardino's contempt. "You are lucky that we didn't meet two years ago," he said. He gave the man another shove and simultaneously stepped back a few steps. Still aiming the gun at Giardino's head he said, "Turn around."

At first the older man didn't move. He just continued to stare at him with a withering look. Eventually Giardino raised his hands and turned around with exaggerated slowness. Pulling out zip tie cuffs, John stepped forward, grabbed hold of the other man's hands and tied them tightly behind his back. 

"I knew I should have killed you down in that basement," Giardino spat.

"Well," Reese said, stepping close enough so that his breath would tickle the other man's ear. "Ain't hindsight a bitch? C'mon." Spinning both of them around, John pushed an obstinate Giardino with his gun pressed into his side as an incentive to start walking in front of him.

"So you're gonna hand me over to the old bastard?" Giardino asked and Reese gave his shoulder another shove as he tried to turn around again. "So _he_ can kill me? Is that what you're gonna do?"

"No," John replied, knowing that Finch had probably been holding his breath since the moment he threatened to kill their Number. "That's not what we do. But I do know a few detectives down at Homicide who would love to have a chat with you."

 _"Thank you, Mr. Reese."_ The relief in Harold's voice was almost painful to hear. John had come way too close to allowing the killer the CIA had wanted him to be to take control. Would he have felt remorse? Probably not. Not for taking that child murderer's life. But if he had gone through with killing Giardino in cold blood, he would have lost something that he had come to highly value: Finch's trust.  
Reese doubted that he would have ever again been able to face the man who had literally pulled him off the streets and believed in the good in him. And for as much as in his eyes Giardino had lost the right to breathe, he just wasn't worth losing _everything_.

They were almost out of the alley when someone stepped into the opening. John couldn't make out who it was, as the light had been rapidly dimming with the sun setting and the streetlights illuminating the person from behind, shrouding his face in shadow. 

"I'll take him from here." 

Reese instinctively pushed Giardino behind him, keeping a tight grip on the man's upper arm. He raised his gun towards the silhouette and squinted. He'd heard that voice before ... "David."

 _"Who?"_ Harold asked confused. _"Mr. Reese, what's going on?"_

David stepped forward into the shadow of the alley. His posture was relaxed and John noted that he seemed to be unarmed. "This doesn't need to get complicated," Sheffield's man said, holding his open hands out at his sides. "Just give me Giardino and we'll go our separate ways." 

"You can't," the Number croaked from behind him. "They'll kill me." 

Ignoring Giardino, John tightened his grip around the squirming man's arm - not caring about the bruises he was most definitely leaving behind. "As much as I'd like to, I can't." He smiled at David with a small shrug. "If you want him, you'll have to go through me first."

David dropped his hands and his gaze fell momentarily to the dirty ground. When he looked up again a small, smug smile tugged at his lips. "I thought you would say that." 

David snapped his fingers and out of the corner of his eyes Reese saw a red flash. Looking down at himself John saw three red laser dots dancing on his chest, each uncomfortably close to his heart. He looked up again, tightening his grip on his gun and scanning for cover. 

Stepping even closer while making sure to stay out of his gunmen's line of sight, David said, "You may be able to squeeze off one shot." He shrugged. "And kill me. But believe me when I say that my men will not let you get out of this alley alive. Or leave here without that scumbag hiding behind you."

John's mind was racing. There was a dumpster approximately fifteen feet into the alley. With the odds stacked against him as they were, David and his men might not expect a move from him and if he were quick they might make it to the cover it promised more or less in one piece. Once behind it he'd only have to hold out long enough until backup arrived. That was a very optimistic assessment however. How realistic it was John figured he was about to find out. 

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

On the other end of the open com-link Finch was intently listening in. Although he could not see what was going on, he had a sense that Mr. Reese was in serious trouble. He had not recognized the name or the voice of the man currently threatening John, but Harold figured it was a fair guess that he had come to take Mr. Giardino to Mr. Sheffield and therefore to his certain and most likely very unpleasant death. 

His first impulse was to call the detectives for backup. But a quick estimation of how long it would take them to get to Mr. Reese and their Number made his heart sink. If David truly meant business - which Finch had no reason to doubt - then his friend just did not have that much time. 

With his heart pumping like a jackhammer in his chest, Finch's mind was a complete blank as he stood by his computer equipment. Under his fingers those computers were usually an enabling resource of power, but at moments like these they were utterly useless. His eyes fell on the file that held the detailed descriptions of the horrid deeds of the man he had asked Mr. Reese to protect. He'd tried to forget the pictures of Sheffield's wife and his little girl, displaying Giardino's sick handiwork in gruesome detail, but Harold knew that he never would. That had been the work of a monster. 

By now he knew John well enough to know that he wouldn't back down that easily. That he would not just risk, but lay down his own life without a second thought to protect others. 

"John," Harold said into the air of the library. His voice was surprisingly calm and steady. Never had Harold Finch thought that he would ever say what he was about to say to Mr. Reese. With the realization of what Michael Giardino truly was also had come a reassuring clarity. And now he only hoped that he was not too late. "Please, stand down. He's not worth losing your life for."

The com-link remained silent for a few more seconds and Harold waited with bated breath for _something_ to happen. 

_"Alright,"_ John's low voice eventually filled the silence in the library and Finch exhaled in relief. He heard Giardino's voice being cut off in mid-obscenity, clothes rustling, a thump and Reese grunting in pain. _"Didn't you promise to be deferential to my condition?"_

 _"I'm glad you came to your senses after all,"_ David said, ignoring John's quip. His voice was now louder over the speakers, as he must have been standing close to Mr. Reese. Very close. _"But I think you'll understand that I have to make sure you won't change your mind again."_

Finch's heart stopped. He wasn't sure what Sheffield's man meant, but he absolutely did not like the sound of it. There was more rustling of clothes, another painful grunt, then nothing.

"John?" Harold asked, and listened with increasing trepidation to the hiss of static as his only reply. 

 

_To be continued..._


	19. Chapter 18

Finch and Bear arrived at the alley forty-five minutes after he had lost contact with Mr. Reese. He was still able to pick up John's phone's GPS signal, which hadn't moved since the loss of contact. He had also been able to re-establish a connection to the phone, but it had only yielded silence and a black screen when he'd turned on the camera. Harold knew the chances were great that he'd only find Reese's phone where David had dropped it, but lacking any other concrete leads to his employee's whereabouts this was his best shot. He couldn't see any reason why Sheffield's men should have taken Reese with them. They had come for Giardino, not John. But the prolonged silence from his friend was more than unsettling, making Harold fear the worst about John's fate. _Dead people can't change their minds ..._

To Finch the traffic on his way here had felt particularly congested, and with every second he'd spent not moving towards his destination his worry for his friend grew - to the point where he'd even started yelling at the other drivers. 

Bear, who would usually have had his nose stuck to the window, was quietly lying on the backseat. With his ears pulled back, he uncertainly eyed his smaller human as the tension in the car grew with every minute. 

Harold parked the car a few blocks away from John's last known position. As much as he wanted to start looking for his friend right away, the voice of paranoia in his mind urged him to caution. He forced himself to walk at no more than a leisurely pace, trying to convey the impression of being a man out walking his dog. 

Glancing at the display of his cell phone every ten seconds, he watched the two dots on the screen getting closer and closer until he was standing at the entrance of an alley. The dots had converged into one and Harold stopped and looked around. It was already dark outside and as far as Finch could tell there was no one to be seen - either on the streets or behind the windows of the buildings around. 

Pulling out a flashlight the hacker entered the alley, moving the light from one side to the other. About halfway into the alley his flashlight's beam reflected off a glassy object on the ground. Stiffly getting down on one knee with Bear at his side, Harold picked up John's phone. Its display was cracked, but despite the obvious attempts at destroying it, it was still in working order. 

Finch pocketed the phone and got back onto his feet. He let the light swipe over the alley walls and ground. Once he had done a 360-turn Harold's hand holding the flashlight sank to his side and he just stood in the empty alley, feeling lost. There was no further sign of Mr. Reese or what might have happened to him. 

_What now?_

Bear was getting restless at his side, licking his chops and emitting a sound between a bark and a yelp. "Maybe you'll have more luck," Harold said, looking down at the anxious dog. "Bear, where's John? _Zoeken!_ "

The Malinois' nose went immediately to the ground, sniffing in the dirt, discerning between all the different smells and filtering out his alpha's scent which he had picked up traces of earlier. 

Bear circled around a spot near one of the walls a couple of times, then he started leading Harold out of the alley and down the street for a couple of yards before stopping at one of the cars parked on the street. Sniffing around some more on the ground, Bear got onto his hind legs and started to claw and bark at the trunk. 

Ordering the dog to stand down, Harold bent his torso towards the trunk. "Mr. Reese?" he asked and listened. There was a thump against the car's trunk lid from the inside and he heard a muffled yet familiar voice. Harold had never imagined a sound more beautiful. "Thank God," he breathed, and fumbled in his pockets for something to open the trunk. 

His hands were shaking as he came down from the adrenaline rush and it took him a couple of minutes to get the lock to do his bidding. Eventually the lid sprang open and the dim trunk lighting revealed John Reese tied up and with a hood over his head, but most certainly still alive. 

Harold pulled off the black hood and ungagged John. "Are you alright, Mr. Reese?" 

"I'm fine," John said. "They didn't hurt me," he added at Finch's worried look. "Just stuffed me in the trunk."

"I'm so very pleased to hear that." After untying the ex-op, Harold helped John climb out of the trunk, which had been way too small for a man of Reese's height. 

"Giardino?" John asked while stretching out various kinks in his back. 

"Securely in Mr. Sheffield's hands, I would assume." 

"Okay. Do we have any idea where he could have been taken?" Harold looked at John. Even in the bad lighting he could see that his face was too pale - where it was not covered in cuts and bruises. The lines around his eyes had deepened as even the dim light from the few street lights seemed to be bothering him. Yet as long as the mission wasn't over Harold knew the ex-agent would work and keep his body going until he'd drop from exhaustion. 

For any other Number Finch would have probably sent Mr. Reese out again tonight. He'd feel guilty about it, of course, but he knew that John would agree that saving an innocent life was more important. However, Michael Giardino was hardly an innocent soul. 

"No, we don't," Finch said in reply to John's question. "And we are also not going to." Reese turned to look at him with a surprised and questioning look. Harold knew that he was toeing a line that he'd sworn never to cross. By allowing Richard Sheffield to exact his revenge he was condemning Michael Giardino to death. _Judge, jury and executioner by proxy._

Harold sat down on the rim of the open trunk, looking down on the ground. "He had his chance," he said, then looked up at Mr. Reese, "to walk away. Instead he came back to kill. And as much as I would like to see Mr. Giardino stand trial for the atrocities he committed, I am not willing to let you risk your life again for that man." He swallowed. His headache was starting to become more than a dull ache and if he was honest with himself he had to admit that he was exhausted - both physically and emotionally. 

"So, this case is over?" John asked and Harold nodded, expecting an argument. Instead he watched the tension escape Reese's body. His shoulders sagged and with a sigh he sat down besides Finch. Bear sidled himself between his two humans, leaning his body against John's long leg. 

They sat in silence for a few moments, as Reese gently scratched Bear's head. "Do we consider this outcome a failure or success?" John asked softly and Finch twisted his torso to look at him as he considered the question. 

Eventually he opted to choose neither option. "It's been a long day and we're both exhausted," Harold said. "Let me take you home."

John nodded and let himself be helped to his feet by his friend. With the tension of the mission gone his body was sending damage reports to his brain faster than it was able to process. Painkillers, several ice-packs and rest - in exactly that order - sounded more than wonderful right about now. 

With a matching limp to Finch's uneven gait, John walked beside Harold and Bear. "What a day, huh?" 

Finch snorted. "Tell me about it."

"Let's not repeat it."

"Yes. Let's not."


	20. Epilogue

"Morning, Finch."

Harold looked up from his monitors and watched John Reese, bearing a box of donuts and two steaming take-away cups, walk into the inner sanctum of the library. He still looked like he had gone ten rounds with a Mixed Martial Arts champion and there was an unevenness to his long gait, but it wasn't as pronounced as the evening before. All in all, sleep seemed to have done him a world of good.

"How's the head?" John asked as he placed the donuts and the cup of Sencha on Harold's desk. 

"Better. How are you feeling?"

"I've had worse," the ex-op replied - not surprising Finch with his verbal shrug-off of the beating his body obviously had taken during their last mission. Having had time to reflect on the events of the last two days after he'd dropped John off at his apartment, Harold had truly realized just how lucky they had been. The car crash alone could have easily killed his friend, and yet here he was, asking for the next case.

Smiling Harold shook his head. "No new Numbers yet." He took the lid off his cup of tea and inhaled the steaming fumes before taking a tentative sip. The tea was at the perfect drinking temperature. Out of the corner of his eyes he watched John fiddle with a book lying on his desk. As much as he appreciated the calm after the case they just had, Harold knew that John didn't. "I'm sure Bear would appreciate being taken for a walk," he suggested.

Bear's head shot up at hearing his name and the word "walk" in one sentence. 

"Well," John said, smiling at the hopeful look on the Malinois' face. But whatever he'd been about to say was cut off by Harold's cell phone ringing. Bear's head dropped back onto his front legs in disappointment. 

"Good morning, Detective," Harold said, answering the call.

_"Yeah, what a_ fine _morning it is."_ Fusco sounded grumpy - well, grumpier than usual. 

"How's the head?" John asked with a smirk.

_"Like you care."_

Reese frowned. "I'll take that as a 'fine'."

_"Whatever."_

"What can we help you with, Detective?" Finch asked. 

_"They just pulled your guy from the Hudson. Looks like he went through the wringer before he was dumped, but I guess you two wouldn't happen to know anything about that, would you?"_

John and Harold shared a look. They hadn't shared the information about Giardino's past with Mr. Sheffield with the detective the day before. Should they tell him now? 

Reese shook his head. 

"I'm afraid not," Finch said.

_"Yeah, thought so,"_ Fusco grumbled, not even trying to hide his disbelief. _"And once again I'm the one stuck with your mess. Seriously -"_ Harold hung up. 

He looked at Mr. Reese. "I guess now we know what happened to Mr. Giardino. In case we were wondering."

John held Harold's gaze for a few seconds. Neither of them were really surprised about their latest Number's fate. In a way he was glad that the old man had finally gotten his revenge. And he definitely wasn't going to lose any sleep over it. 

"I'm going to go take Bear for his walk now," John said and Bear immediately perked up again. Favoring his ribs, Reese got stiffly down onto one knee in order to clip Bear's leash on his collar. The Malinois' tail was wagging madly with excitement as he tried to shower his alpha with wet doggy kisses and almost threw him off balance. Harold watched the scene in front of him with a small, lopsided smile tugging at his lips. He grew sober when once more the unbidden thought of how very close their last case had come to going disastrously wrong pushed itself to the forefront of his mind. _And there's absolutely no guarantee that the next case won't be our last..._

"You know what?" Finch said, realizing that he hadn't planned on doing anything that was so important that it couldn't wait. "I think I'll join you."

Shrugging into his jacket, Harold picked up his hat and - pleased to have his boss's company - John handed him the leash. "We could stop by Ecklert's Deli, if nothing comes up. Get some real food?"

"I would like that." Harold actually beamed at the thought and they began descending the stairs. "Have I ever mentioned that it's my favorite deli?"

John blinked and just barely managed to hide his surprise at Finch's voluntary revelation of private information. "No," he said with a grin. "I don't think it has ever come up."

"Oh, their pastrami on rye is to die for. Did you know that "deli" is actually an abbreviation of the German word _Delikatessen_ , which means "fine foods" or "delicacies"? Until the nineteenth century pretty much all delicatessens in New York were run by Germans and Alsatians and they did not characteristically sell take-out food like they do today, but ..."

Holding the door open for a happily chatting Finch in _History-mode_ , John still smiled as he stepped out onto the sidewalk and fell in step with his partner. With the memories of the last two days already fading, they set out to enjoy the peaceful moment while it lasted.

_The End_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _It's been over 1.5 years since I first started plotting and researching this story ... I think I'm actually going to miss it.  
>  I was trying to write a story that feels like a Number-based episode of the earlier seasons and I hope that I have achieved that (at least a little). I had also noticed that pretty much in all of my longer stories, Reese never makes it out of trouble on his own two feet, and I figured I owed him at least one story where he gets out more or less in one piece. So, sorry if you were hoping for more whump._
> 
> _Thank you all for reading. And special thanks to all of you who reviewed!_
> 
> _Read for your pleasure - review for my delight ;)_


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